


What Happened on Elm Street

by Toryb



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brother/Sister Friendship, F/M, Hard of Hearing!Jellybean Jones, Illusions to Abuse, Murder Mystery, My contribution to spooky month, Mystery, New in Town Jughead, Not to be that person but there's gonna be darkness, Plot Twists, Sleuths Jughead and Betty, Things are kind of spooky, Uncanny Valley Vibes, brief descriptions of violence, hopefully darkness not like RAS' darkness, more a tonal darkness than a person darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16122725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toryb/pseuds/Toryb
Summary: When Jughead Jones moves to Riverdale with his family, he uncovers a few mysteries this simple small town has been trying to cover up--specifically the murder that occurred in his house during the late 1950s that was never properly solved. Unable to keep his curiosity away, he teams up with neighbor and fellow mystery lover Betty Cooper to uncover the truth.





	1. 111 Elm Street

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. I have been so fucking excited about this fic, I can't put it into words. if you liked Dear Angel, I think you'll like this, but if you didn't, I think you might also like this. it's a soft kind of spooky, as someone who is not a horror fan, I can promise you that.
> 
> A few thank yous:  
> @bugggghead for being my beta and my amazing friend and making my graphic  
> @jandjsalmon for listening to all my ideas and being as pumped as I was for some October feels
> 
> All the people in the discord who put up with my vague descriptions of this fic and all of you for clicking on it!

Welcome to Riverdale -- The Town With Pep!

 

The sign made Jughead’s stomach churn and his eyes nearly roll out of his head. The town with pep, huh? Was it pep that was forcing his father to move back to his proverbial roots, ripping the entire family out of Toledo all for a shitty town in upstate New York that’s one googleable quality was maple syrup and familiacide? Seriously, there was a lot of murder happening in this town. A quick search brought him three different articles, all pertaining to someone murdering a family member they couldn’t stand. Uncles, wives, sisters--no one was safe in Riverdale.

 

His father said it was money. Things were tight in Toledo, so tight they’d recently had to move in with his mother’s parents, causing friction in his home life that left many of his nights sleepless under the stars, trying to connect the dots through missing patches of intercity air pollution. FP Jones was out of a job, had been for two weeks, and Gladys wasn’t making enough as a substitute teacher to support two growing children. Especially when one of them had an affinity for vinyls and the other was a mopey hipster entering his junior year of high school. There was also the matter of feeding Jughead, who could eat enough for four armies and then still ask for seconds. 

 

A call had come just when they’d needed it most, on the precipice of being evicted from his grandparents’ house with nowhere else to go. Fred Andrews, his father’s best friend from High School, made a call and offered him a job back in Riverdale.

 

“You’re the best damn foreman I ever had, FP, and we’ve got a big project coming up. You willing to help out?”

 

The pay was tantalizing enough and before the year was up, all their bags were packed and the ties cut. When Jughead watched Ohio fade away in the rearview mirror, he felt nothing but bitterness. Toledo was no prize winning city, with its dilapidated areas and crime rates that far surpassed the national average, but it was where he had spent his entire life. He had friends there--though few and far between. More importantly, he had a newspaper there. His pride and joy, the Purple and White, was something he had slowly nursed back to health from the dead for the better part of his freshman year, earning his spot as Editor-In-Chief when it was finally up and running. It was something to call his own. And now, like everything else he had spent sixteen years building, it was gone.

 

Jughead was not usually one to hang onto things for sentimentality, but when they had taken all they could, he’d run up to his grandmother’s room and snatched the old beanie from her nightstand. She had stolen it when they’d moved in, claiming he was “much too old for silly security blankets.” He’d held that thing as tight as he could the entire drive to Riverdale and prayed the old bat would stick herself a million times on her sewing needles. Someone needed to sew her mouth up tight.

 

Their truck hit a pothole and the McDonald’s soda coated his lap in sticky carbonation. Jughead cursed and his mother spun around, popping him in the mouth with the palm of her hand. From beside him, his little sister giggled, pulling her headphones out just to hear his scolding. Ten-year-olds sucked.

 

“Watch your mouth, Jug,” his father warned him, not bothering to shoot so much as a glance back as they passed an old rundown park. A few kids lingered, spinning on the merry-go-round, their singing muffled by the gentle patter of summer rain and the glass of the car’s windowpane.

 

“Watch your driving then.”

 

He had been caustic since the news of the move first broke. Being away from his oppressive grandparents was delightful, but already Riverdale was proving to be nothing but dreary and troublesome. Everything was far too green and far too well kept for a town no one knew anything about. Something felt wrong, not that he could place exactly what. On the outside, there wasn’t a hair out of place, a sign turned the wrong way, or a single vagabond in sight. There was a certain Uncanny Valley feeling that made his skin crawl. And now, it had stained a perfectly good pair of denim.

 

“Enough. Can you please try and act decent?” His mother was frustrated. After an all-day car ride with the three of them, Jughead almost couldn’t blame her. When he wasn’t bitching about the move, JB was asking questions or FP was ignoring directions. “You don’t want to be here. None of us do. But this is where we can have a better life. I’ve already got a job at the High School as a long-term substitute music teacher and summer work at a kids camp. You may not see it, because you’re determined to be clouded by teenage angst, but things will be better like this. Much, much better. If you could take a minute to open your eyes and actually see that, you might see things aren’t as terrible as you thought they were.”

 

“I don’t know, those creepy kids on the swingsets and the fact it looks like I pissed myself are pretty terrible.”

 

Galdys’ eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

 

“Nothing. Sorry, Mom. I’ll do better.”

 

“Good. Because we’re here. And if you act like such a little brat in front of the neighbors I’m going to find the nearest river and toss you in it. There has to be like twelve right? With a town name like that.”

 

FP shook his head. “Only one. Sweetwater River. Maybe we can go out for a picnic there sometime as a family. I went all the time as a kid.”

 

“Who would have thought, false advertising.” Jughead thought back to the sign, wondering if it was too late to grab the wheel and make them turn back.

 

They pulled into the driveway of their new home. Property values in Riverdale weren’t so high, and with a bonus check from Fred, they’d managed to secure themselves a relatively cheap property. It was dirt cheap. From the outside of the house, Jughead thought he could guess why.

 

To call his new home at 111 Elm Street a “fixer upper”, as FP had dared to, was a kind way of acknowledging that it was a shithole. The top windows were boarded up with rusted nails, leading to an attic that was surely collecting cobwebs and dust over years of discarded family heirlooms from previous residents. White paint was peeling off the side of the house’s paneling in large chunks while the leaves from the dying maple trees followed the mice to hide under the front porch. The only thing not a complete disgrace was the red door and the iron knocker hanging just below the peephole.

 

There wasn’t much to unload as the place came fully furnished. The couches--probably dating back to the early eighties if the ugly upholstery meant anything--were covered in plastic wrap to keep them safe, but the old wooden coffee table had enough dust caked on it that Jellybean could, and did, use her finger to write her name in it. Upstairs was his bedroom. It was a place that had gone through many evolutions over the decades. The last owners, from the nineties, had been partial to band posters and thumbtacks apparently. He reached out and traced the   holes in the wallpaper.

 

His nail caught on a thin crack in the vinyl, fluttering as the heavy duty air conditioner worked its magic. Curious, Jughead pulled it back only to discover a swatch of pink paint behind it. No warnings written in blood or even backyard treasure maps, just pink with maybe a cloud on it.

 

With a sigh, he got back to work unpacking his few possessions. He stacked his collection of old DVD’s on the dresser before filling it half full with all the clothes he owned. Only a few were nice enough to hang up, but he’d deal with that problem at a later date. His books were organized on a shelf so rickety the top bar collapsed in on itself. There were only two lights in the room, neither coming from the ceiling, but one of them had a burnt out bulb and the other was missing a shade. Well, guess it would be reading by flashlight or the low, blue glow of his computer screen until they could get those problems fixed.

 

JB didn’t bother knocking when she came in, holding her box of vinyls tight in her grasp. “Are you done? I can’t figure out how to set up my record player and Mom and Dad are busy arguing in the kitchen about the faucet. Apparently it doesn’t work.”

 

“Of course it doesn’t. Why would it? Yeah, I’ll come help.”

 

The busy work helped distract him from the unease--and the whisper shouts of his parents’ crumbling marriage. They reorganized it twice until she sat back satisfied. Books helped him and music helped her. Neither of them understood the other that well, but it was a mutual respect that kept their sibling relationship worthwhile. Jughead would do anything for his sister, even if it meant hours of sifting through dusty old Led Zeppelin albums.

 

“Do you think there’s some old records leftover in the attic? Or anything else cool?”

 

He shrugged, setting the  _ Beauty and the Beast _ music box he’d saved up weeks’ work of paychecks to buy just so she had a Christmas gift under the tree when she was eight.

 

“Maybe. We can go check tomorrow if you want though, while Mom and Dad are at work.”

 

There was a summer of nothingness stretching out before him, the first one a very long time. Since he was fourteen he’d been picking up summer jobs. Most of the time it was scraping paint off of people’s doors or mowing lawns, but it was enough to give him extra spending money. This year he would have no such luxury. Someone needed to be at home to home to watch Jellybean while their parents were at work, and it certainly wouldn’t be some expensive babysitter from a town where they knew no one.

 

Hot Dog, their poor energetic sheepdog, came bounding up the stairs. After being trapped in the back of the truck for the entire eight hour drive, no one could blame him for his excitement. JB giggled when he tackled Jug to the ground and effectively trapped him between dog breath and the dusty wooden flooring. This place needed a serious bleach bath.

 

“Geez, it’s like you haven’t seen a human before,” he laughed, sitting back so he could properly get his hands in the soft dog fur. “We’re right here, bud. Ready to be boring summer buddies? Nothing exciting happens in this town unless you count the murder.”

 

“People were murdered here?”

 

“I mean, yeah, but to be fair people were murdered a lot more in Toledo. It’s just this place had a crazy murder rate for population statistics up until the late eighties. I read about some guy who shot his wife in the head for cheating on him, but she survived and then shot him as revenge.”

 

Jellybean made a face, picking up the doll from her bed and tucking it safely in her arms. It was moments like this he remembered she was much younger than anyone gave her credit for. “Oh.”

 

“Hey. Sorry I shouldn’t have brought it up. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

 

“With murder?”

 

“What? You want me to talk about puppies and unicorns instead? Me? Your annoying older brother who watches the news in the mornings because he likes to just start off the day grumpy? Please. If I wanted to make you smile, I’d just do this.”

 

He was on her in a second, his fingers making a well-executed assault on the sides of her waist--a spot she hated being tickled most. (He was an expert at avoiding her hearing aids, making sure he didn’t pull too hard and cause her any discomfort. At least that wasn’t intended.) Jellybean screamed and started to thrash, fighting off the laughter as valiantly as she could. It didn’t take long for her to cave though. Hot Dog watched from the sidelines, offering supportive barks for both teams until he heard a little bell ring from downstairs and decided that was of more importance than a silly tickle war between siblings.

 

When JB had managed to free herself, she pulled the pillow off her bed and hit him with it. “You’re a jerk!” 

 

“Oh yeah, definitely, without a doubt. But I’m the jerk you love.”

 

“Jug! Come down here for a minute!”

 

He groaned, not an uncommon occurrence whenever his mother called him in her “I have a favor to ask you” voice. “I’ll be right back.”

 

Downstairs looked better than he had ever expected it to, probably thanks to the near empty bottles of Pine Sol and Windex sitting on the kitchen counter. His dad was at one of the rickety dining chairs looking over a few files Fred had sent over for him before they’d left Ohio. Gladys looked tired as she pulled the yellow latex gloves off and tossed them into the overflowing garbage can. Maybe it was the move. Maybe it was the fighting. Maybe she didn’t want to admit it, but she could taste the unrest in the air just like he could.

 

“Your father tells me this place called Pop Tate’s not too far away from here that has the best burgers and fries, open twenty-four hours. Would you mind riding down there? We just placed an order but they don’t deliver.”

 

“What kind of place doesn’t have at least one UberEats driver?”

 

FP laughed. “This one. I’ll make you a deal and let you ride the bike if you promise to be careful. The roads here are used to rain, but I don’t want our welcome into town to be a hospital bill because you got cocky and road into a ditch by hydroplaning.”

 

The bike. Jughead loved that bike. At least one good thing was coming from the entire move: his parents felt bad enough for him that he was going to get to ride the bike to some dive near the highway. Food was not something he had much of a problem with though. There was nothing like a good hole in the wall find to keep his appetite satisfied.

 

“What kind of place is it?”

 

“Burgers and fries mostly. And the best damn milkshake you’ll ever have. Shit, Gladys, I should have gotten the kids some. Order the chocolate malt while you’re there, boy. I’ll text you the rest.” He tossed Jughead the keys. “And remember what I said. Drive safe not stupid.”

 

“I hear you, I hear you. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

 

Outside the air felt sticky, the humidity clinging to his curls under his old cap. Toledo was humid like this, too; but with the grey clouds and the low whistle of wind, it was easy to get lost in the New York scenery. Maybe he had over reacted before. Looking at everything like this, a single snapshot of nature, he didn’t mind it all that much. It was certainly prettier than Ohio had been. Then again, most rocks were prettier than Ohio had been.

 

He pulled the bike out of the garage and removed the tarp from it. The rain had mostly subsided but he hoped the Sherpa lining of his jacket could survive the ride. It, like his now ruined jeans, was one of the few nicer things he owned, stolen from his grandfather. Just as he was about to hop on, he heard the hum of a young girl.

 

Jughead turned around and met eyes with a surprised looking girl. She was the first person he’d seen around his age here, with blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail and pretty green eyes. He felt his mouth go dry. The second thing he noticed was how worn her clothes looked. There were holes in her overalls, and a threadbare polka dot collared blouse sticking out from underneath it. Her shoes looked like they had once been a pristine white, but were worn down by the elements and one too many walks outside. In her hand, she was holding a stick, dragging it along the cracks in the sidewalk.

 

“Oh. You’re new here, aren’t you?”

 

“Yeah, I am. We just moved in today. I was about to go to this place called Pop’s. Hear it’s any good?”

 

She laughed. Immediately he was fascinated by the dimples in her cheeks and the freckles on her nose. “Of course I have. Everyone knows Tate’s Chock’lit Shoppe, at least in Riverdale. You’re a lucky duck to get to go there tonight.”

 

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind. So do you live around here?”

 

“I’m a neighbor. I’ve lived here all my life.”

 

“Apparently that’s how most people live in Riverdale. I’m from Toledo but my dad used to live here. Maybe you’ve heard of him, FP Jones. Maybe you haven’t.”

 

Her eyes sparkled with something he couldn’t quite place. “He’s pals with Freddy Andrews, right? I heard he’d be coming back to work for him at the construction site.”

 

“Yeah. Lucky us. From one shithole to another. Sorry, I’m being rude, in probably more ways than one. I’m Jughead, and you are…?”

 

“Betty,” she answered simply. He waited for an elaboration that never came. “Tell Pop I said hello for me, would you? It’s been a while since I stopped by.”

 

There was something so compelling about her when she spoke, like at any moment gold might start falling from her tongue. He had never felt so enthralled with someone before. It was a strange feeling he would have to think more on later, after things had settled in at home and there was nothing better to do than stare at the wall and contemplate the inner workings of small-town living.

 

“Okay, sure. I should probably get going anyway.” Jughead turned away to pick up his helmet before his mother could sense he hadn’t put it on and come running out here to scold him. “It was nice meeting you, Betty.”

 

When he faced back around to give her a wave, the girl was gone. He could still hear the faint humming and whack of the stick. What a strange person that Betty must be. He hadn’t caught where around here she lived, but when there was a population of two thousand people, Jughead was sure he’d stumble into her again sometime soon.

 

Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe was exactly the kind of place he had imagined it to be. It was straight out of one of those 1950’s Reader’s Digests he used to pick up and read in the checkout lines at the grocery store. Hanging overhead was a bright neon sign, promising burgers, fries, and fresh milkshakes to all weary travelers who dared to enter. He hadn’t seen many people in Riverdale so far other than the strange girl outside his home and the children at the park. Apparently, they had all congregated at Pop’s, where even finding a place to park his bike on the rocks out back was proving a difficult feat.

 

The bell jingled above him and everyone turned with wide eyes to gawk at the newcomer. This didn’t seem like a place that had many transients, so he wasn’t particularly surprised that there were immediately whispers being shared amongst the youths. Back in the corner booth, he spotted the jocks--apparently even small-town America was not safe from a mass of high school stereotypes. He should have expected as much.

 

It was easy to ignore them the same way he ignored the people who stared at him in Toledo: like an outcast, a loser, someone to be stuffed into lockers. The only difference was now he had to be more wary of any looming threat until he could label everyone appropriately and make maps of the nearest escape routes for any social situation. Jughead walked to the front and rang the little service bell. God, could this place get any nosier?

 

An elderly black man came pattering out from the kitchen wearing a white apron almost as bright as his smile. He was the kind of man who smiled genuinely and without care. It was the kind of trait that Jughead admired, watching how his nose crinkled. The name tag pinned near the striped bow tie said  _ Pop Tate _ . Ah, the man he would now be taking all his burger related complaints to. Hopefully his father hadn’t overhyped it beyond redeemability--like when Jellybean had talked endlessly about the new Jurassic Park movie only for it to turn out okay.

 

“Can I help you stranger?” Pop Tate asked.

 

Jughead nodded and pointed at the bagged order on the bar countertop. “I think that’s mine. I’m picking up an order for FP Jones.”

 

“Oh shit!” One of the football jocks sat up and quickly made their way over to him.

 

The guy was tall, with broad shoulders tucked snuggly in a blue and gold letterman jacket. There was a scar between his brows, but the most noticeable thing about him was his hair, copper red and perfectly smooth. He was smiling stupidly wide for someone who had no idea who Jughead was, even offering his hand outstretched in politeness. Jughead stared at it wordlessly until he pulled back.

 

“Sorry, I’m Archie Andrews. Fred Andrews is my dad. Our parents were childhood pals or something and he asked me to make you feel welcome when you showed up.”

 

(Pals? Did everyone in this town talk weird? Or was it just the people he’d had the unfortunate pleasure of running into?)

 

“Welcome not necessary, Hercules. Thanks though. You can go back to talking about halftime games and imagining sports rules.”

 

Archie’s eyebrows furrowed. Staring into those big brown eyes, Jughead felt like he had kicked a puppy and then asked it to walk itself home. “I just thought since you’re new here I could show you around. Like I said I’m Archie, back there is my girlfriend Veronica.” A girl with black hair and too many bracelets waved. “Cheryl and Jason.” A set of twins with hair not quite as red as Archie’s though they certainly held their heads high. “Reggie, Moose, Kevin.” Three boys, each in varying stages of inhaling fries, though the one on the end looked more disgusted by the incident than anything. “We all go to Riverdale High. You’re going to be starting there after summer right?”

 

“Yep.” Jughead turned to Pop Tate. “Can I get a chocolate malt by the way. And…” he looked at his phone and frowned. “Whatever a fruit loop milkshake is. Jesus, JB that’s a monstrosity even for me.”

 

But Archie Andrews was apparently very persistent. He followed and sat beside Jughead at the bar while he waited for his milkshakes to be done. “If you have any questions you can totally ask. I get that it must be weird. I went to school in Chicago my eighth-grade year after my parents’ divorce before I moved back here, and switching between them sucked.”

 

“Most of reality sucks. Everything except Uma Thurman and the sweet embrace of fry sauce.”

 

“Haha, yeah totally. So, Jug, do you play any sports or anything?”

 

“No offense, but I’d rather eat sand than play sports. Not exactly my thing. But I guess my dad did it in high school. I wrote for the school newspaper back in Toledo.”

 

“Oh, that’s cool! We have one, too. Dilton works on it with Ethel, Kevin, and Moose sometimes, too, but Moose mostly writes about sports. Between you and me, I think he only does it to impress Kevin.”

 

Great, he was already being pulled into the small town gossip. “Look, Archie, you seem like a swell guy and all, and I mean this in the best way, but I seriously don’t care. Whatever kind of nonsense is going on here can keep going on. I’d rather not be a part of it, because the second I graduate, I’m moving to NYU for bigger and better things than burgers and fries.”

 

“The best burgers and fries,” Pop corrected, placing the cupholder of milkshakes in front of him. “Once you try it, you won’t forget it.”

 

“You know, I actually want to go to NYU, too. For music. I play guitar.”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. I didn’t know I’d move to Riverdale and meet living breathing Troy Bolton.” (He’d blame JB for making him watch those terrible movies, but everyone in the house knew it was more likely FP and Gladys would break into an off-key rendition of  _ Breaking Free _ in the kitchen before either of their kids did.)

 

“I get that a lot. But you know that guy played basketball, right?”

 

For the first time since the move had been announced, he laughed. “Got me there, big guy. I have to head out. If I don’t get this food to my family before midnight, we all become angry gremlins. Nothing like a starving Jones.”

 

“Oh, I totally understand.” Archie smiled and grabbed a napkin from the bag without asking. This town was startling in not just aesthetics, but cleanliness. On it, he wrote out his phone number before stuffing it back in. “Call me whenever you get the chance and we can hang out, for real. Riverdale can get kind of boring during the summer, so it’s worth knowing someone around to show you how to enjoy it a little.”

 

“Thanks, man.”

 

Just as he was finally about to escape the ever increasingly awkward social situation he had been thrust into, a cold voice cut through the air, so strong that the white noise died. From her tongue sprung words that would haunt him to the very core for weeks to come.

 

The girl with the red hair, Cheryl, pulled her lips away from her drink, leaving a blood-red ring on the glass. “Jones, right? You moved up to the house on Elm, didn’t you? My Nana Rose says there’s something wicked in that house. And Nana Rose is always right.”

 

Jughead would tell himself it was the breeze that made his body shake and the chill run up his spine that night at the diner, but it wasn’t. “Wait, what do you mean?”

 

“Cheryl, knock it off. You know that stuff is just a rumor.” Archie turned back to him. “Just ignore her. She likes causing chaos wherever she goes. It’s just her personality.”

 

“I’m serious, Archibald. My Nana is a gypsy and she can feel it. You’ve got a wicked house with wicked roots and it’s rotting from the inside out. Why else would it be on the market for so long? You heard about what happened in 1957, didn’t you? With that family?”

 

A mystery, a real life mystery, had been presented before him, and Jughead eagerly reached out and gripped it tight. He filed away everything she said as best he could, making a mental list future Google sessions. Maybe Riverdale wasn’t as boring as he had originally thought.

 

“What happened? What family are you talking about?”

 

“Enough!” Surprisingly enough, it was Pop Tate who spoke, slamming a waiter’s tray against the counter. “I won’t have you speaking ill of the dead in my diner. Especially… especially not them. Run along home, Jones, and tell your dad I’ll be expecting to see him come by soon. It’s been years and I bet he’s got a few stories to tell me.”

 

Jughead was quickly ushered out; but before he left, he made sure to turn to Pop and say, “Oh by the way, my neighbor Betty says hello.”

 

The air felt colder when he left the diner. Maybe it was the rain clouds coming in, or maybe it was the soberness of the twilight before the sun had finished setting and the moon filled the earth with mystic power. He rode home with his mind, preoccupied with thoughts of the mysterious unnamed family who had once resided in the same cobbled together home he was at now. Jughead hoped his dad would be able to bring light to everything. As a Riverdale native, he must be privy to all the ghost stories and urban legends.

 

“What took you so long, boy?” FP asked, looking up from the tangled mass of wires and the IKEA TV stand box. It was one of the few new pieces of furniture they had bothered buying.

 

“I ran into the neighbor outside. Her name’s Betty, I think. And then I got hung up at the diner meeting Archie Andrews. Tell your friend I said thanks for sicking his son on me. He is… strangely determined to be friends with me.”

 

Gladys sighed and set her glasses aside. “You know that isn’t a bad thing, Jug. Making friends is good for you.”

 

“Yeah, but how will he keep up his dorky loner look then, mom?”

 

Jughead tossed a burger at his sister’s head. “I hope the bun is soggy.”

 

She gasped. “You wouldn’t! That’s such a mean curse!”

 

“I would and I did.”

 

Gathered around the table--which now had four cardboard coffee coasters they’d stolen from various restaurants on the way here stacked under the right leg to keep it balanced--Jughead nearly touched nirvana. Pop Tate had really meant it when he said he was the best around. His mouth watered with the flavor from the burgers and each bite of a fry felt like deep fried potato glory. McDonald’s eat your heart out.

 

The milkshake was good, too, and he plucked the extra cherries from JB’s as “retribution for making your brother buy that nasty thing.” Everyone ate in relative silence, not an uncommon occurrence in the Jones household, when both his parents were exhausted and his sister was too busy making music with her forks to pay much attention to the world around her. A part of him hoped things would be better here. Away from Toledo, a fresh leaf, maybe things would start changing for the better. It was almost comforting to know they wouldn’t.

 

“Hey, Dad. I have a question for you.”

 

“You get two.”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Ha. Ha. Thanks. Generous of you. I only need the one. When I was at Pop’s, this girl named Cheryl told me about the house and some family that used to live here, in the fifties, and something happened to them, but no one would tell me anything about it. I figured since you’re from Riverdale maybe you would know.”

 

“Always the true crime enthusiast, I see.” Gladys shook her head, pushing her daughter’s plate a little closer to her as a reminder to eat and not just create a garage band out of fried chicken.

 

FP thought for a moment, chewing slowly on his burger before making his decision and setting it to the side. “I’m not sure there’s much story to tell. It’s all rumors now, after the Register burned up in the sixties, everyone lost the records of what really happened. I’m not one to go spreading hearsay either.”

 

“Come on Dad, please. This is the most exciting thing to happen since we moved here! If you tell me, I promise I’ll stop asking.”

 

“Alright. Alright. Well, I don’t know much, never believed in all that stuff, but they say what happened was a family lived here during the fifties. They had a son and a daughter. Most people around Riverdale liked them alright, but one day the father snapped and tried to kill his family. He stabbed his son while he was sleeping and tried to strangle his wife. Apparently his daughter and his wife got away, but his son ended up bleeding out in...” his eyes drifted to poor little Jellybean, oblivious to the exchange. “Muffin, could you do me a favor and plug your ears?” 

 

She stared at him, unblinking for a few seconds before plucking the hearing aids out of her ears. “Better? I can still read your lips. Wait are you going to tell me he died in my room? Mom was there a dead person in my room!?”

 

“No! No. It was the… backyard.” Jughead rolled his eyes at his parents’ floundering. Maybe he shouldn’t have instigated the murder conversation at the dining room table, but the aftermath was golden to watch.

 

It took Gladys promising more milkshakes tomorrow and that she could come into their bedroom whenever she needed tonight to finally get Jellybean calm enough to go upstairs and shower. When the girls were gone, Jughead turned back to his dad with wide, curious eyes. He hadn’t finished his story.

 

“Fine. Fine. I know you’re not going to let it up until I finish.” FP sighed, tossing the garbage away in one of the many overflowing boxes. “The son ended up dying in his bedroom and the dad tried to set the house on fire. After that, it’s all speculation, but the mom and sister moved out of Riverdale and never came back. So some people say the house is haunted. I think that’s a load of baloney.”

 

“No one says baloney anymore.”

 

“No one thinks being a dick is cool anymore either and yet here we are. Go make sure you're sister gets into bed. It’s late and your mom and I have grown up things to talk about.”

 

“Bills or jobs?”

 

His dad shrugged. “Both? Neither. God, I never know with your mother. Don’t get married until you’re too old to give a shit, kid, that’s my sound advice.”

 

Truthfully, Jughead was pretty sure he was never going to get married. A guy like him was not marriage material. In all sixteen years of his life, he had never imagined even kissing a girl, let alone participated in it. There was a brief period in middle school where he thought Trula Twyst might kiss him on a dare, but that was short lived--he’d fallen off the bleachers during an assembly and she proclaimed he was just too dumb to kiss. There was no arguing with logic that sound.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind for if it ever happens.”

 

Upstairs, he did not find JB in her bedroom, but instead curled up under his sheets, shaking like a leaf. He felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he kicked off his shoes and crawled in beside her. Gently, he moved the koala clip for her hearing aids out of the way so she could cuddle up closer to him.

 

“Sleeping in here tonight?”

 

She nodded once. “Do you really think the house is haunted?”

 

“One, I don’t believe in ghosts. But two, and most importantly, even if it was, you know Hot Dog would protect us. He barks at imaginary squirrels, I’m sure ghosts would be his favorite thing to chase.” That got her to finally laugh and he smiled. “There we go. Hey, I’m sorry I scared you earlier. I should have waited until you were gone to bring it up.”

 

“It’s okay, Jug. I think it’s cool it’s just… with everything else it’s… it’s already scary enough.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I get what you mean. Hey, tomorrow we’ll go digging in the attic to make it up to you. But for tonight, you are going to sleep. Come on, hearing aids out and on the nightstand. And don’t even think about ‘accidentally’ dropping the koala in the trash. I’ll know.”

 

As little kids were bound to do, the koala clip was to keep her hearing aids in place so they wouldn’t get lost if they ever fell out. They didn’t have the money to replace them, but more importantly, they didn’t want JB going without them for too long unless she had to. Jughead had always been protective of her. How someone could be so small and vulnerable was baffling to him. His mother always joked that he came out of the womb a grumpy thirty-something with a grudge against capitalism. But Jellybean was different. She was gentle even when she was snarky, with a childlike glee burning in her heart he never wanted to see snuffed out by the harsh realities of the world.

 

Only ten years old, Jughead had practically raised his little sister. He had been the first to notice her hearing difficulties, pointing it out to his parents again and again until they finally took her in to see the doctor. He was the one who sat beside her to make sure her homework got done and filled out the forms so she got to go on the class trips like all the other kids. He had even named her, because his mother, trying to distract herself, had asked her son what to name his sister. Looking down at the treats in his lap--his favorite cinnamon ones--he had replied “Jellybean.” Like all dumb names did in their family, it stuck, and they were the siblings at school named Forsythe and Forsythia or Jughead and Jellybean. Frankly, he didn’t know which was worse.

 

Jellybean grumbled a half hearted protest before complying, situating herself firmly in the curve of his arm. There were a lot of nights like these. Growing up they were few and far between, but the older they both got, the more frequent the fights and the nightmares became. He watched until her breathing steadied and the stress pulled away from her tiny features, her cold feet pressing against his leg before finally allowing himself to drift to sleep.

 

That night, he dreamt of nothing except a bright pair of green eyes and the hollow ringing of a stick being drug harshly against concrete.


	2. The Attic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attic, the library, and another strange encounter with his neighbor Betty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my amazing beta @bugggghead for beta-ing this and always listening to me bounce ideas when i get unsure if something works well. but also a HUGE thank you to all you guys. I know this is a bit of a niche thing, so to have people already on board with it makes me beyond happy, beyond excited, beyond words! I hope you enjoy this mystery in eight parts I'm weaving. I love hearing all your theories in the comments!!

Adjusting to life in dreary old Riverdale was not helped by the seemingly endless rain that had kept the younger Joneses trapped inside the relative safety of their crumbling home--at least after they’d patched the hole in the roof. JB passed the time with her music and facetiming the friends she’d left back in Toledo. Jughead sat at his computer, reading through lists of archives in ever-increasing frustration. Aside from a few scanned newspaper clippings from the classifieds, there was not a single mention of their home on what JB had begun referring to as “spooky street.”

 

Whatever mysteries were haunting their halls the people of Riverdale had not bothered, or perhaps not dared, to keep record of. It seemed strange to him that a place that so proudly pasted the sordid history of the, apparently very deadly, maple syrup trade had forgotten all about the murder-suicide on one of their residential streets. Maybe it was just an old wives’ tale. Maybe his dad was right and there was no mystery to solve. But even the most absurd fairytales tend to be weaved with truth, and Jughead was determined to dig as deep as he could to find out where fact met fiction.

 

It was in his nature to be borderline obsessive when he sunk his teeth into something. The newspaper has been good for him, though the editorial staff working under him might have argued he was too persistent at times, following a strange code of ethics that really only made sense to him. Besides, it wasn’t like him to leave a good true crime mystery unsolved. And a small town one at that? What would Capote think if he passed up the opportunity of a lifetime?

 

He felt the pressure of a small demon lingering over his shoulder before he felt the drag of her wet tongue against the side of his face. 

 

Jughead jumped back, laptop clattering to the floor as he wiped the spit off his cheek. “What the hell, Forsythia? Spending a little too much time with Hot Dog?”

 

“One, rude, don’t call me Forsythia.” Her face scrunched up in a pout, making him smile. “You know that is not the name I choose to be labeled by. One day, when I’m a famous musician, I’m going to be the Artist Formerly known as Forsythia.”

 

“You really want  _ that  _ on billboards following you around tours?”

 

Her mouth pulled open in a little gasp, as if she had not taken the time to consider this prior to their discussion and would now heavily factor it into her future decision making. “Oh. Maybe not.”

 

“So what brought on the assault? Surely you didn’t come down just to have me critique your band name.”

 

“Jughead, I’m bored,” Jellybean groaned, throwing herself into his lap, across his retrieved laptop so there was no hope of him opening it up. “You promised we could dig around in the attic four days ago and I want to do it now! Come on please, Juggie, please. Please. Please. Please. Pleaseeeeeeeeeeee.”

 

Her wiggling and whining alerted Hot Dog to the fact that he was not participating in causing a ruckus, something he worked quickly to rectify by howling along with her cries. Soon, Jughead was consumed by a cacophony only those with younger siblings could properly understand. The old sheepdog ran over, joining them on the couch so he could properly sing to them while intermittently covering Jellybean’s face in kisses. It didn’t take long for the noise to break him.

 

“Fine. Fine, we’ll go up now. But we’re only spending like an hour up there. Deal? I don’t want your allergies acting up and I still want to go to the library later.”

 

“Great, moving from one run-down, stuffy place in the rain to another. Sounds like fun.”

 

“Did you  _ want  _ to go upstairs?”

 

Jellybean nodded, zipping her lips and tossing the key somewhere into the distance. Hot Dog tried to run after it.

 

The attic was just as dusty as the house had been before their mother’s deep cleaning spree the night they had first moved in. Cardboard boxes from previous tenants were stacked in the corners of the room, but time, earthquakes, and the steady rot of humidity had caused many of them to topple over, spilling their contents in large, indiscernible heaps. There were a few larger oddities trapped near the window. Immediately, the aging dollhouse in the center of the room caught his attention, paint peeling back from the delicately crafted wood. If Jughead knew anything from horror movies, they were two seconds from having a barbie haunting on their hands.

 

Reaching down to examine it further, he noticed that it was an exact replica of the house they currently resided in, with a red painted door and a little plaque with the address spelled out painstakingly put together. Every little detail had been added with the greatest of care. Whoever the craftsman was certainly had taken his time, pouring dedication and perhaps even love into his creation. Even the mismatched roofing was identical, and the little iron bars on the windows twisted along the shudders in the say way. Growing up the side was a paneling of moss and a little windowsill garden had been glued to the downstairs window shutters. He noticed a faux rose bush, perfectly withered from age, the tiny felt petals collecting dust on the cracked attic floors. 

 

There was a break in the middle of the house, but when Jellybean went to open it, she was stopped by a rusted old iron lock. No matter how much she pulled, it wouldn’t budge. Immediately the mystery intrigued him. Could this have something to do with the mystery of 111 Elm Street? Somewhere in this decrepit room could he find the key to all his questions?

 

Suddenly, JB was pulling back. He watched her expression shift into something he couldn’t quite place. She looked sick, uncomfortable. Panicked.

 

“Hey, are you okay?” Before he could reach out to touch her, his little sister had fumbled her way into his arms, clinging tightly to him.

 

“I don’t like it.”

 

“Well, you’ve never really been a doll person. We can just forget about it if you want…”

 

She shook her head, hugging him tighter. “No. It makes me feel...bad. Like it belonged to someone else and I shouldn’t be touching it.”

 

“Then we’ll forget about it. Come on, I’m sure there’s a bunch of crazy stuff hidden in here. Maybe we’ll find a picture of dad with a mullet from high school.”

 

Jellybean laughed and even dared to flash him a smile. In better spirits, though with the dollhouse still lingering in his mind, they turned to the piles of old boxes. Just as she’d hoped, there was a stash of old vinyls tucked into the corner, kept in relatively good condition by the care their father had used. Jughead moved to the other side of the tiny attack and began his search through the more dated relics, hoping to find something from the late fifties that might have belonged to the mysterious tenants the town seemed so determined to forget. 

 

Almost nothing he found was notable, and with each dwindled pile, his hopes diminished. A few baseball cards with the faces so worn it was impossible to tell if it was Jackie Robinson or Tony the Tiger. There was a catcher’s mitt and a few baseballs that the red stitching had slowly begun unraveling from, leaving the hard insides exposed. Maybe the son had been a baseball fan before his untimely demise. Jughead made mental note of that as a potential research possibility--anything to make these abstract characters become more real.

 

Near the bottom of the heap were a few more troubling treasures. In one box, Jughead pulled out five gas masks stacked together neatly, though he doubted they would be much use now. There was canned food tucked into the corner, the labels worn off, and a jug of water with a few specks of something swimming around in it. He picked up one of the masks and a small pamphlet fluttered to the ground. If he squinted, he could barely make out the cursive scrawled across the front.

 

_ Everything You Need to Know About the Atom Bomb! _

 

“JB, I think the people who lived here before dad were doomsday preppers.”

 

Logically, it made sense. The 1950’s in American history were a tumultuous time at best, with the ever-present reality that at any moment an atom bomb might hit and destroy the very fabric of reality. Back then, denuclearization hadn’t been something formally discussed, as world powers competed silently for absolute dominance and the most the government could do was handout colorfully cheery brochures to make death a little less scary.

 

He dug in deeper, eventually pulling out another crumpled up paper. This one was torn in half, harder to read than the other, but holding it up to the light he could make out a few words.

 

_ Universal All Steel $1480! _

 

The description was blurred, but the context clues were enough to know he had stumbled across an ad for a fallout shelter, gingerly cut out from the last page of an old newspaper. Jughead tucked it into the pamphlet along with the baseball card and slid them into his jacket pocket for future use.

 

“Can you blame them?” Jellybean asked, pulling out a dusty leather-bound book. “It was a scary time in American history where everyone thought they were going to die.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“Duh, I’ve seen you and Dad play that video game. What is it? Fall-In: New Los Angeles? The one with all the radioactive cockroaches.” She paused. “Don’t tell mom.”

 

Jughead laughed. “Secret’s safe with me. What’s that in your hands?”

 

They gathered around the book, shaking the dust away until it revealed a delicate stamp of blue and gold letters.

 

_ Riverdale High Bulldogs: Class of 1993 _

 

A few pages were marked with care, dog-eared and decorated with black sharpie. Jughead grabbed it and flipped to one of the pages, eyes going wide in disbelief. There was his father standing on stage in the midst of a musical production, wearing a leather jacket with his hair slicked back.

 

“Oh my god, Dad was in a musical? Look at his hair!”

 

“That explains why he had this!” JB pulled out one of the vinyls from her collection, a complete soundtrack for  _ Bye, Bye, Birdie _ .

 

“Should we show it to him? Do you think Mom knows?”

 

“How could Mom not know?! Take a picture in case he hides it! I wonder if there’s anything else cool in here to embarrass him with.”

 

While Jughead was busy flipping through pages and getting as many pictures for posterity as he could, Jellybean had found something interesting at the bottom of her pile. Like everything else, it was worn and hard to read at first. She squinted at the lettering before finally turning around and holding it up for her brother to read.

 

“Jug, what’s a Ooh Eee Ja board?”

 

He felt a chill go up his spine only to be confused the moment it ended. Spirits and spooky things were not typically in his realm of belief. As a firm skeptic, there wasn’t much proof for dead people haunting shower stalls in public restrooms and EVPs being more than a hoax done by a few crafty producers on the History channel who wanted money. (The History channel! Daytime cable was appalling in the worst ways.)

 

But as he stared at the box, Jughead could sense something, something he couldn’t quite place, something he wasn’t sure if he  _ wanted  _ to place. It was an uneasiness that made him momentarily wonder if the Pop’s leftovers had been worth eating that morning. Suddenly, everything felt off. Wrong. Like a small shift had brought everything just enough out of alignment to paint the world with unrest.

 

“Some stupid game people think they can talk to spirits using. Just put it back. You’re a scaredy cat anyway.”

 

JB huffed and stomped her foot. “I am not!”

 

“You couldn’t even finish watching  _ Dumbo _ .”

 

“Those pink elephants were scary and you know it!”

 

He rolled his eyes and snatched the game from her hands. Even that made him feel worse. Quickly, Jughead stuffed it back inside the box from which it had come, hoping to have it lay there forgotten by both himself and his sister. Whatever it was he hated about it could stay in one of the few unanswered mystery folders he kept filed in his mind.

 

“Come on. We’re going to the library now. Bring your treasures to your room, small troll.”

 

“Trolls hang out under bridges, I am obviously a goblin.”

 

Once everything was put away, and where JB’s very explicit instructions deemed they should be, they got ready to go to the library. Neither Gladys nor FP were going to be home in time for dinner. His mother was busy at the summer camp and his father was getting drinks with the construction crew so he could get to know them better. There was money for pizza--Jughead was surprised this backward town actually delivered anything--left on the counter and a reminder to call if anything seemed out of place.

 

He made sure there was food and water out for Hot Dog and the back gate was locked so he couldn’t escape and try and tear up the neighbor's flowerbeds like he liked to do back home in Toledo. With that done, and Jellybean securely wrapped in a raincoat she didn’t actually want to be wearing, they were off. Rain beat down heavily against the clear plastic umbrella as he watched her jump from puddle to puddle unperturbed by the water.

 

They passed by many closed windows, tinted with raindrops and dust so it was impossible to see anything more than the haunted silhouettes of people inside going through the mundane motions of daily life. In a little town like Riverdale, it was easy to picture an ideal image of dreary middle-class mediocrity. A nuclear family with a husband at work and a wife making pies as children scuttled around the large living room by the fire to keep warm from the unforgiving weather.

 

When Jughead was young, he used to stay up late and sneak downstairs to turn on the television, watching whatever reruns of classic late night sitcoms were playing. It was easy, even then, to draw parallels between his life and the imaginary one. His family was so clearly dysfunctional it was almost absurd. While his parents whispered divorce like a curse word, their children wandered off into the streets in search of late-night adventures, often times stumbling into trouble. Jughead was an adult before either of them had learned what it meant to be one. In some ways, he bemoaned his loss of childhood, wishing for longer days with cartoons and coloring books and excitement at everything that passed by the car window; a time when the stories filling up pages in his notebooks were not so bleak and disheartening. Maybe in the fifties he would have been the one stocking up on atom bomb brochures and contemplating the uses of a fallout shelter.

 

“Come back under the umbrella, Jelly, before you get soaked,” he called out affectionately.

 

She frowned but joined him back under the safety net the rest of their way to the library. It, like many of the building in Riverdale, was in sordid need of repair. Most libraries were one well-thrown rock away from crumbling into dust, but this one seemed exceptionally susceptible to a light breeze. The old red brick was chipped and faded. The sign was missing letters, advertising a book club event nearly two months late. Lightning cracked, shaking the ground, and Jughead ushered his sister into the safety of the old building.

 

It smelled like mothballs and bitter tea inside. A handful of people were scattered around, including an elderly woman behind the desk who adjusted her glasses and pointed towards the “Quiet” sign without looking up from her reading. He sighed and turned to Jellybean, kneeling down so he could come face to face with her.

 

“Do you want to look around on your own while I go do my research? Something tells me you’re not too interested in watching me dig through old town archives. We’ll get you set up with a library card when we leave, too.”

 

In many ways, it was Jughead who had raised his sister, nurturing her in the wake of absentee parents and other lackluster authority figures. He could never blame anyone. They were poor, so both his parents worked to keep them from drowning, but that meant much of the childcare rested on his young shoulders.

 

“Okay.” She nodded and pointed towards the left of the library. A rainbow sign hung from the rafter sectioning off the kids' section, by far in the best shape compared to the rest of the dusty bookcases and tilted research desks. “Can I go there?”

 

“Yeah just be careful, okay? Remember, stranger danger.”

 

“I’m ten not five, Jug. I’ll be fine. But I’ll make sure I scream really loudly and kick my legs if someone tries to get me.”

 

Jughead kissed her forehead before making sure the monkey attached to her hearing aids was secured to her shirt. “Good. Don’t lose this guy. Because I’ll know if you throw him in the trash can. Now go. Be free.”

 

She huffed, muttering something about her “stupid clip on” and the “injustice of childhood,” before scampering off to kids’ section. He allowed himself a moment to watch, making sure she made it in safely. Once she was picking up books from the shelves, he was content knowing all was well and made his way to the back.

 

The Riverdale Library did not have an extensive online archive of what was in the collection. It was outdated--like everything else in the place--likely from a time when the internet was just gaining traction to a wider audience. A few copies of papers from the supposedly burned down Register were tucked somewhere in the back sections, along with a myriad of public records including births, deaths, and property management of most of the town's inhabitants. If there was one way to figure out if there had ever been a family that owned 111 Elm Street before the Jones’ had picked up the deed in the early seventies, it would be this.

 

Just like apparently everything else in this town, the records were dusty, lying untouched for years even with a hovering librarian shooting him distrusting glances out of the corner of her eyes. He searched through the streets before finally settling on the file he needed. It was as good of a place as any to start, and really the only clues he had to go off of were the mysterious oddities in his attic indicating someone must have lived there from that time period. Even if it did not involve familicide, there had to be some kernel of truth in the stories.

 

He flipped through the pages far enough back to find his grandfather’s purchase. Forsythe Pendleton Jones the third had bought 111 Elm Street in 1974, swiftly canceling its properties scheduled bulldozing so him and his young wife could move in to start their family. It was a story Jughead knew well. His grandmother had died in labor, leaving his grandfather, whom he never had the chance to meet, emotionally crippled and raising a child he partially blamed for his wife’s passing. FP Jones grew up about as well as one could expect until he himself found a wife and moved out of Riverdale as quickly as he could. Forsythe the First died on his way to church when Jughead was only two and everyone was surprised when the last will and testament painted his father as the new owner. It would have been a good source of income for the family, renting it out in hopes of turning a little prophet, but not many people wanted to live in a supposedly haunted house. He couldn’t imagine why.

 

Further back in time, he found the initial building permit, only to be ever frustrated when the signature was left blank. All the information was there: the contractor, the proper signatures from city hall, but the place marked for the homeowner’s signature had not a single word scratched across it. It seemed strange to forget something so vital. Even in Riverdale, where the population in the fifties was barely big enough to call itself a hamlet, leaving that off was laughable.

 

Jughead scratched his brain for an alternative explanation. Perhaps the wrong paper had been filed and the real one was still floating loosely out there somewhere, hidden away in the back corner of the mayor's desk or in the wrong folder in the library archives. Just as he was about to toss the file back into the poorly kept records, he noticed a slip tucked just behind the initial permit form.

 

A collateral loan had been taken out using the house as leverage on a lien in someone’s purchase. He squinted, trying to make heads or tails of the legal jargon, making notes in the margins of his notebook to look up certain words when he got home. But there it was in black and white. The first owner of the spooky Elm Street home had used it to purchase a building only a few blocks away. Eventually, that building would become The Register, the newspaper Pop had mentioned burning down to the ground a few years ago. 

 

It seemed strange to have a business placed so squarely in the middle of a cul-de-sac, the epicenter of fifties familial living. Then again, being well within walking distance to someone’s place of employment was a dream not many could achieve even now. With the underdeveloped state of Riverdale, was it too far a stretch to assume the area had changed over the years, migrating from a buzzing street corner to a quiet neighborhood?

 

Jughead snapped a few pictures of the files with his phone, a reminder to go over them more thoroughly in the future when he could begin to piece together theories using push pins and old clippings. He made his way over to the librarian, hoping she wasn’t as unfriendly as she looked.

 

“Hello? I was hoping you could tell me where I could find some information on the Register. You know, before it burned to the ground.”

 

She raised an eyebrow at him but pointed to the back of the building. “There’s a ladder that’ll take you to the second floor. That’s where most of the city records are stored from that long ago. We only keep a few down here for ease of access.”

 

“Right. Thank you.”

 

Everyone in this town was disconcerting in their own special way, but when she smiled at him with missing teeth, Jughead wished he could teleport back to Toledo and wake up knowing this fever dream had not, and would not, ever exist. The ladder was made of metal, rickety under the weight of his body. He coughed upon entering the upper rafters of the public library. If he had thought his attic was a mess, then venturing up here was by far the worst punishment imaginable. Dragging his finger along the only table in the room, he collected enough dust to create his own dust bunny army. The single light flickered on with uncertainty, Jughead made sure to keep his phone handy, just in case the lights went out and he was forced into the role of horror movie hero with nothing but his flashlight by his side.

 

Just as he was about to start his search, there was a soft bang and a hum that buzzed a memory on the edge of his brain. He ducked between the shelves to find the girl from a few days before, Betty her name was, sitting on the ground with a book in her grasp. She looked up, mouth forming a gentle ‘o’ of surprise. He noticed her outfit. Just as worn as before, with a few holes in the hem of her circle skirt and the lace of her white bobby socks, but clinging delicately to the curves of her body in such a flattering way that he was entranced.

 

“You’re Jughead.” Her green eyes were wide and the grip on her book went a little tighter. “That’s your name, right?”

 

“Yeah, it is. And you’re Betty. You live in my neighborhood.”

 

“I do. What are you doing up here?”

 

The light from the flickering yellow bulb danced in her irises, and he saw the same sparkle of something from before--just as perplexing and frightfully compelling. “I was doing some research. Apparently, someone died in my house back in the fifties, but no one in the town has anything more to say about it than rumors and old wives’ tales. So I came to do a little research to see if it had any merit in reality, and instead I got a bunch of housing documents that are incomplete and dust buried so deep in my sinuses I’m never going to be able to breathe right again.”

 

Betty giggled and patted the floor beside her. It was cold and metal, but Jughead didn’t much care, taking a seat anyway. “It’s true you know... what they say. I know it is.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“Well...I’ve done my research, too. I’ve always been fascinated by true crime. I guess you must be too, coming all the way up here in search of answers. No one comes up here. It’s quiet. I don’t mind quiet, mostly because I’m used to it though.”

 

“Is there anything you can tell me about the house then? Maybe we can make a collaborative effort on this sort of thing.”

 

Betty beamed up at him, a smile so bright he nearly forgot to breath. “Yeah? You mean it? That would be a blast, Jug. Let me clue you in on a few things I know.”

 

Thank God. At least someone in this town was willing to give him answers, even if it was his seemingly ethereal neighbor, so bright and--dare he even say--beautiful it confused him. People as a whole, alive ones, did not often interest Jughead in the way a good mystery did. But with each sentence Betty spun, he felt himself being pulled in tighter and tighter into her spider’s web.

 

“The house was owned by a family. The dad used to own the Register before that terrible thing happened. I heard he was a wannabe scientist, kicked out of medical school and real peeved about it, ended up having to go into journalism to pay the bills for his family. Everyone said they were normal and happy, that his daughters were real good-lookers.”

 

Jughead stopped, a frown pulling at his features. “Daughters? I heard from everyone there was only one daughter and one son?”

 

“Oops, slip of the tongue.” She smiled sheepishly up at him. “Sorry. I haven’t slept in awhile so I’m a bit of a space cadet. I meant his son and his daughter were real good-lookers. Everyone in the town respected them, but no one knew he was seconds away from snapping. And then when he did, oh it was awful. But I’m sure you heard about that.”

 

“Yeah. But it doesn’t seem like it’s too uncommon here, does it? I read at least a handful of other family on family murder incidents in Riverdale history.”

 

Betty shrugged. “Maybe, but this was something special to the people. So special no one talks about it anymore which makes it all the more fascinating. What is there to uncover? Why are they hiding something?”

 

“Exactly! If it was nothing, I feel like people wouldn’t be working so hard to hide it. Even Pop Tate got mad when Cheryl brought it up.”

 

“Little Terry did? He’s not usually one to get mad about things. I heard he might...know something about them. The family, I mean, but he doesn’t talk about it. No one old enough to remember the tragedy does. It’s worth thinking about an interview with him if you get a little more curious.”

 

“That’s not a bad idea. I haven’t been here long enough for him to trust me, but maybe if I make it a point to be a regular, he’ll be more inclined to open up.”

 

“Oh no, what a shame. Sitting around eating burgers and milkshakes for some undercover sleuthing.” Betty giggled and he took a moment to drink her in. Her lips were tinged with blue, body shaking slightly. The draft up here was bad and the thinness of her cardigan made him worry.

 

“Hey, do you want to borrow my jacket? You’re making me cold just looking at you.”

 

She shook her head. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”

 

“Seriously, please. I’ll grab it before I leave again. Just take it.”

 

Comforted by his cautious smile, Betty relaxed and took the jacket from his grasp, slipping it around her shoulders. He noticed she took special care to avoid his fingertips, his touch in general, sitting far enough away that not even their knees brushed. It made him wonder where she was from. What kind of life she was living. His heart ached just a little for a reason not even he himself could fully understand.

 

“So what were you reading?” He gestured to the book at her feet turned face down so he could only make out the words on the back of the thin text.

 

“Oh!  _ Nancy Drew and the Secret in the Old Attic _ . It’s my favorite from the series, so sometimes I come up here and just reread it to pass the time. I think I’ve read all of them about a hundred times at this point.”

 

“I wonder if JB would like this sort of thing. I know she’s down there looking for books but maybe I could mention that. Maybe she’s read a few of them before; I could ask. Never too early to bring another mystery lover into the family.”

 

Betty nodded, handing the book to him. “Give her this one. I know I can find another one to read, I’ve got plenty of time and I’m sure that she’d love it.”

 

“Thanks, I’ll pass it along. Do you have any siblings?”

 

“Two. They’re both older. They moved away a long time ago, though, and I haven’t seen them since.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they just don’t like to visit. My brother and my dad never got along. My sister got married and moved upstate to a farm to raise her babies. I wish I got to meet them.”

 

“I’m sorry, Betty. I can’t imagine not seeing my sister for that long.”

 

“What are you sorry for? Did you start some upstate home for wayward young women you haven’t told me about? Creepily whisper about ‘the farm’ in people’s ears to convince them to join you in your pact for utopian living?”

 

After all the nonsense he’d been reading up on, from supposed murder to atrocious legal documentation, Jughead was starting to think that Riverdale was not a place someone wanted to raise their children. Aside from the outright creepy atmosphere of the town, there were an ever growing tangle of mysteries that were starting to hurt even  _ his  _ head. (Him! the true crime crack addict!) And now he needed to mix in a potential cult influence for the reason these small town inhabitants were acting screwy with their history. He added that to the potential list of future research, especially how it might be connected to the origins of Elm Street.

 

“What the hell kind of town is this? Question, is there anything normal about Riverdale?”

 

“Short answer? No.”

 

“What’s the long answer?”

 

“No, but it’s exciting?”

 

Jughead laughed, shaking his head. “You are an interesting girl, Betty...No given last name?”

 

“Cooper.” Her expression changed, pulling at the loose thread on her skirt. He watched it slowly unravel the red embroidered flower. She wrapped it slowly around her pinkie until it pulled tight and turned the tip of her finger pink. The thread snapped and fell into a little pile in her lap. A deep breath in, then she answered, “My name is Betty Cooper. You know. I read in a book once that at the end of a red string is your destiny. What does it mean when yours breaks?”

 

“I...don’t know.” He felt a chill in his spine as he watched the thread fall. “I don’t think they’re supposed to break. But I don’t know much about it.”

 

“Maybe it means you’re supposed to die.”

 

“I don’t think it means anything. I don’t really believe in all that superstitious shit. It just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t care how red something is or how much I might think my bagel looks like Jesus, there are no external signs from the universe before something goes sideways. It just does.”

 

“What about ghosts? Spirits? God?”

 

“To be determined. Until someone presents me with some actual evidence for any of the above, I will remain an agnostic skeptic.”

 

Betty nodded and gave him that smile, the one that didn’t quite reach her eyes and made him wonder what sort of sorrows she had been forced to endure in her life. Pain was something he understood. Life was torture, pain, often times hard to navigate. His grandparents had been abusive, his parents neglectful. Most of his clothes were Goodwill hand-me-downs and he had saved for a year to buy his own laptop--even if it was purchased from a shoddy second hand shop and even after three rounds of antivirus hardware cleanses, he still had the occasional porn website pop up when all his windows were closed.

 

“Let me go check the noise out.”

 

Before she could answer, there was the loud creak of metal under pressure, alerting them that someone was coming up to join them in the highest rafters. The sound broke whatever spell had been cast. He scrambled quickly to his feet, sneaking through the isles to find whoever had interrupted the quiet retreat from reality he found himself a part of with Betty.

 

Everything was dark and cramped between the book cases. He tripped on an uneven board, stumbling forward into a small frame that cried out in surprise, falling to the ground. He had to squint to make out the detail, only to be startled to find his sister, rubbing her head and pouting up at him.

 

“Ow! Who raised you to not look where you were going? Monkeys?”

 

“If I was raised by monkeys, so were you.” He offered his hand and helped her up, brushing the dust off her jacket that had snowed down upon them during the crash. “Why are you up here?”

 

“I was bored and I heard you talking to someone, so I came up here to find you.”

 

“I was just with the neighbor girl, Betty. Here, let me introduce you.”

 

Jellybean followed him, holding his hand tightly to keep herself steady. But to his surprise, all he found in the forgotten library nook was his jacket, folded neatly so the book was tucked into the pocket. The long red string stuck to the sherpa lining was the only evidence that Betty had been there at all.

 

“Huh. I guess she had to run. She told me to give you this though.” He pulled the book out and handed it to her. “Said it was her favorite and maybe you’d like it.”

 

She studied the pages curiously before her lips pulled down in a frown. “Weird.”

 

“What’s weird?”

 

“I asked the librarian, she’s mean by the way, and really cranky, if they had any other Nancy Drew books, but she said the only one they didn’t have was checked out a long time ago and the girl who took it hadn’t brought it back. Does this mean I get to keep it?”

 

Jughead sighed. Leave it to childlike innocence to care about something solely based off of what they were gaining. “Did the librarian say how long ago it got checked out?”

 

“Nope. Long enough that I probably get to keep it though, right?”

 

And so the plot of not just Riverdale, but also the mysterious Betty Cooper thickened. There was something strange about her, strange enough to pull him in and fascinate him. He felt she knew more about the murders on Elm Street than she had been willing to share with him today.

 

“Yeah, you can keep it. Let’s get out of here. Hide the book in your jacket so she doesn’t catch us taking it out of here.” He was loathe to admit it, but on more than one occasion, he himself had been the perpetrator of a book theft or two, back before consequences made sense and the fact that he couldn’t just own the things he wanted to was perplexing.

 

They made their way down the rickety steps. Jughead stayed behind her just in case her foot slipped and someone needed to be at the bottom to catch her. The library had filled up in his time above it all, with a few more empty seats occupied and a quiet hum from whispered words in the air that was likely making the old woman behind the desk’s skin crawl with displeasure. He guided her towards the doors with all the confidence of a man who wasn’t currently attempting to pillage a children’s book from a government property.

 

Just as they were about to make it through the doors, he heard a familiar voice shout to him, “Jughead! Is that you?” immediately followed by the harsh shush of a few disgruntled patrons.

 

Jughead turned around to find Archie Andrews, his personal ever-present funny man in the midst of whatever Shakespearean drama he had fumbled his way into. Hamlet, probably, except - oh, God no he hoped it wasn’t Hamlet. There was far too much incest and punnery in that one. Besides, last he checked there was no mysterious and creepy uncle in his life to murder his father and sleep with his mother. At least not that he was aware of.

 

“I admit, the library is the last place I ever thought you would find me.”

 

“Yeah.” Archie blushed sheepishly. “I have a few classes to catch up on for school so I can stay on the football team. Mostly just English and stuff. What are you doing here?”

 

“Trying to solve a mystery.”

 

“Stealing a book.”

 

Jughead looked down as JB covered her mouth. “Shush. Or do you not want to find out how Nancy Drew solves the mystery of the forgotten locked attic box? Or...something?”

 

“The Old Attic, Juggie. Do you listen when people speak?”

 

“I try my hardest not to. Especially when it’s you.”

 

Archie laughed and Jellybean tried her hardest to kick his leg only to stumble forward and grip his hand for support when he side stepped out of the way.

 

“So what are you really doing here, man?”

 

“Like I said, trying to solve a mystery. Whatever the red haired girl said--”

 

“Cheryl. She’ll skin you alive if you don’t remember her name. She’s scary. I once heard she poured pig’s blood all over her mom’s bedroom because she wouldn’t let her go to Homecoming. Like some Carrie White shit.”

 

“One, I’m surprised you know who Carrie White is, but it’s a pop culture reference now so I’ll allow it. Two, what I was saying is that what she mentioned got me curious to see if it had any real-life applicability.” And then it clicked. “Wait. She said her Nana told her stories about the house, right? I bet she was around when the murders happened - if they happened at all. You seem to know Cheryl, any chance you could get me an interview with her and her grandma?”

 

Archie’s eyes went wide. “Are you kidding me? Did you not hear what I just said? Cheryl is scary. Really scary. The last time I asked her for a favor, she made me commit to indentured servitude for a month and all I asked was if I could copy the last couple of pages of her Biology homework.”

 

The thought of being tied to whatever demon had possessed the body of a sixteen year old girl was truly terrifying, but the desire to uncover the truth far outweighed any worries. “A price I’m willing to pay. Now, do you think you can help me out or not?”

 

“Maybe…” He seemed conflicted for a minute before finally nodding. “Yeah, okay man. I can ask Cheryl if there’s a snowball’s chance in hell she’ll talk with you. I’ll even pass along her contact information if she lets me.”

 

“Thanks Andrews, you’re a real pal.”

 

Jughead wrote down his phone number and passed it off, hoping this would not be one of those situations he would come to regret in the passing months. At least, if nothing else, Riverdale was far from the boring little town he had imagined. It was beginning to feel more like he might have stumbled into a Nightmare on Elm Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @tory-b!


	3. A Rose In Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything in Riverdale gets a little stranger, Jughead bonds with his neighbor, and Nana Rose unleashing some chilling information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shout out to my kind wonerful beautiful stunning talented beta @bugggghead for looking over this for me. Shout out to all of you who are reading my silly little fic and like it enough to continue on! I LOVE LOVE LOVE reading everyones theories! i can't express how excited i get when I see a new one!!

The summer drudged on forward like a man caught in molasses, unsure of how to make his way out: sticky, hot, and uncomfortable. The last Jughead had heard from Archie about his potential arrangement with Cheryl was that she’d laughed in his face and then told him she would take it into consideration. That was four Pop’s milkshake movie nights ago. His phone sat silently on the end table, chirping only when another unanswered text from his mother, scolding him for something, would filter through.

 

He was bored. With the investigation at a dead stop without the Blossom girl’s assistance, he had spent the last few days running through every horror movie he owned--much to Jellybean’s distress. Sometimes the noises would startle her but above all else, he could tell she was getting irritated with his mopey attitude. It was hard to explain what had come over him in the last few days; a fire had ignited, burning from the inside out in white-hot curiosity. He was someone who craved it all, every question to every answer, so the roadblock was making him more irritable by the day.

 

His phone buzzed again, this time a single picture of Sweetwater River with the caption  _ “You should totally come with us next time.” _ Had it not been so intensely irritating, Jughead might have found Archie’s strange insistence on cultivating a friendship endearing. Some days he wanted to say yes. Ignore all responsibilities and jump into the river under the summer sun, especially when Riverdale’s tumultuous weather actually allowed it. But people like him did not get rest and relaxation. There were too many things to worry about, like the girl upstairs who was just as alone as he was, only far less suited to cope with it. Jellybean had been insanely popular back home in Toledo. Friends constantly fluttered in and out of their house for sleepovers, birthday parties, and school projects. She was an extrovert and being cooped up in a room she was now nearly positive someone had died in was not keeping her sane. Jughead did his best to get them out of the house, but there weren’t many places in town to go that didn’t start feeling trite after the third or fourth visit. Even an iconic restaurant like Pop’s had fallen victim to melancholy.

 

“Checkmate.”

 

The black king clattered to the ground and Jellybean stood up triumphant. He offered his sister a smile, picking up the pieces to set them right again. “Good job, JB. I told you that you’d get it eventually. You just have to pay attention.”

 

“What’s that? Never heard of it before.”

 

“You and me both, kid.”

 

She laughed and started stacking the pieces on top of one another, obviously bored with the endless chess matches they’d started early this morning now that she’d earned every single victory (sometimes it was easy to forget just how young she was). “Does this mean we can play something else?”

 

“Sure. Like what?”

 

“I think Dad took Monopoly into the attic. We could play that?”

 

“And I’m guessing you want me to venture up into the creepy doomsday prepper attic and grab it so you don’t have to?”

 

“It’s scary up there, Jug!” Jellybean pouted, kicking her legs under the table. “It feels bad. Just like someone is watching or breathing or existing and all I know is that I don’t like it. Plus all those gas masks creep me out. Who needs that many canned beets? No one likes beets! No one likes when vegetables are canned! It doesn’t make any sense and it gives me anxiety.”

 

Getting to his feet, Jughead rolled his eyes, brushing off some of the dust that had collected on his jeans. That was something about Elm Street he would never quite get used to--the dust. Everything was old. Everything was dusty. If he stepped too far to the left of anything, he ended up in a cloud of old debris from the crumbling architecture of a house far too outdated to be standing on its own two legs. And yet, here it was, the monstrosity of a home that had been through hell and back. No matter how thickly they laid on layers of paint, he could still see the scorch marks in the upstairs bathroom from where the mysterious patriarch had tried to finish himself off.

 

Jughead couldn’t blame Jellybean for how uncomfortable the house made her. To anyone without a morbid fascination with the afterlife and all things deceased, the mystery shrouding their sleeping quarters would be cause for unease and discomfort. He had always been a bit of an oddity in that regard. What should have frightened him he found tantalizing. Mystery. Murder. There were countless, worn and folded from years of overuse. The first Agatha Christie novel he had ever read sat on his desk the same way he suspected Archie’s golden boy football trophies did.

 

The attic was just as spooky as it had been when they’d left it, with the dollhouse situated dead center, mocking him at the top of a long list of possible leads that stopped short of any satisfaction. He was getting a serious case of murder mystery blue balls. No matter what he did, progress was elusive.

 

The smiling face of the Monopoly Man stared up at him from the top of an open box--one of the few that belonged to the current residents of the house. All their old games were stacked inside of it, having collected cobwebs from years of neglect under his grandparents’ crawl space. He wiped off the top and studied the toothy grin and beckoning wink. It was strange how badly he wanted to reach through the planes of existence and smack the smug look off an elder cartoon man’s face. 

 

“What do you think? Any clues you can help me suss out in that capitalistic little trap of yours?” He shook the box once.

 

Like everything the Jones’ owned--their house, their cars, their clothes--their games were old. The metal jalopy had been replaced with the a red piece from a garage sale  _ Sorry! _ and both die were recycled from other, long abandoned poker sets. Duct tape that had been holding together the edges of the fraying cardboard broke with a pop, sending a few of the cards spilling across the floor.

 

“Shit. Way to go idiot.”

 

Jughead quickly got on his knees, digging around under piles of antiques for a few missing community chest cards that proved elusive. The bulk of them had fallen underneath an old vanity, the mirror concealed by forgotten piles of junk stacked high. Dirt had fused with the once delicate metal frame of the mirror and left it looking cheap and gaudy. He got on his hands and knees to reach under the drawers, fumbling until he could grab onto something, even if it was the sharp edge of paper.

 

Whatever he had pushed made a soft clatter, a distinctly un-card like sound. He moved his hand again, surprised when his finger caught the soft edge of  _ something _ . It was worn thin, fraying near the edge and tickling his skin as he wrapped his fingers around it tightly and pulled his arm out from underneath. A long, pink ribbon was wound around his fingers and hanging from the end was an old metal key. The same pattern from the vanity had been braided around the base and his first instinct was to try and fit it inside one of the many locks before him. When none of them worked, Jughead frowned, disappointed that another find had left him with nothing.

 

“Jug?”

 

He shot up, smacking his arm against the metal furniture piece, stinging both his pride and his body. “Warning, JB. When I’m sneaking around up here suspiciously, I need a little warning that you and your weirdly silent feet have arrived.”

 

Jellybean rolled her eyes and he noticed then she refused to enter the space, hanging at the edge where the ladder met the floor, her little head peeking up. “Mom called and said she’s sending the neighbor to come pick me up so I can hang out at her summer camp for the rest of the afternoon. So you’ve got plenty of time to be creepy by yourself now.”

 

“Do we know these neighbors?”

 

“I do. Mom introduced me the first night you were here, but I think everyone in Riverdale knows everyone so maybe you would if you weren’t so happy being lonely.”

 

For all intents and purposes, the had landed in the heart of a sleepy American town. The murder rate was alarmingly high, but as long as your family didn’t come from a long history of certifiables, you were in the clear. Maybe she’d even be safer with a stranger than she was at home with him. Certainly, he wouldn’t mind the alone time to sit and ponder the goings on of his mystery case.

 

“Alright, sounds good.” There was a honk outside and he pointed. “Probably them. Have Mom text me when you get there so I know you made it safe, okay?”

 

“Okay, promise. See you later, Juggie. I’ll even ask if we can stop and get Pop’s on the way home.”

 

“A little slice of heaven in this shitty, garbage town. Thanks. Try to enjoy yourself with the kids and play nice. Remember to tell them that if they’re little assholes, I will personally kick their asses.”

 

“A grown man walks into a room full of fifth graders and just starts kicking them. That sounds illegal.”

 

Jughead shrugged. “Everything sounds illegal when you put it like that. Now shoo. Go. Enjoy your childish innocence while your older brother broods at home alone.”

 

She popped up just enough to kiss his cheek before scampering down the stairs and out the door. He watched from the window as she got into the car, immediately beginning an animated conversation with the girl her age in the back. Feeling relatively good knowing she was safe and sound--at least for now--he looked back down at the key in his grasp.

 

There weren’t many things it could have logically belonged to. The vanity had already been eliminated as a possibility, and as far as he could remember, there was nothing in either his bedroom or Jellybean’s with an old lock that fit. It was then he remembered the dollhouse, sitting in the center of the attic, waiting so patiently to be opened. Excitedly, he dropped to his knees before the wooden structure, taking a moment to admire the details again. Surely a lot of love and heart had been poured into its conception.

 

And then he heard the music. It sounded like the song that always played on JB’s music box. It was light and soft, starting at a gentle hum carried up and over the windowsill on the breeze. He hadn’t remembered opening the window in the attic, but if the universe willed him to hear that gentle song, he could hardly be too concerned over trivial little details like that. Jughead stood and peered out the window again, curious to see that familiar blond ponytail swinging in the wind.

 

Betty was walking by, slowly dragging her stick along the crumbling gray sidewalk. Every few steps she would pause to trace one of the chalk drawings by her feet with the blunt end of her stick. It was a strangely haunting sight, one he could have spent hours watching if the universe allowed it. Something about her was fascinating. He was drawn to the mystery she presented herself as--well, and maybe the cute quirk of her smile, too.

 

“Betty!”

 

She jumped, surprised before looking up to follow the sound of his voice. There was that smile, so radiant he felt his toes curl. “Oh. Hi, Juggie. What’re you doing all the way up there?”

 

“I was looking for a board game for my sister and I to play, but she bailed on me to hang out with friends her own age. Totally ungrateful.”

 

When she giggled, he felt compelled to speak more. “What about you? Just wandering the neighborhood looking suspiciously like an extra in a horror movie?”

 

“I was just walking. Sometimes being outside isn’t a bad thing. But I guess I was lonely at home, too. It’s been empty there lately.”

 

“Trust me, I get the feeling. Would you… maybe want to come inside? I can’t guarantee it’ll be half as fun as scaring the shit out of the nieghbor kids by banging you're stick against their fences, but I’m sure I could think up something for us to do.”

 

“Yeah, sure. I think that’s a swell idea, Juggie.”

 

He beamed down at her, not that she could see the excitement in his eyes from so far away. “Cool. Come on in, I’ll meet you downstairs in the kitchen. The front door’s unlocked so don’t worry about knocking or anything.”

 

Jughead took the ladder steps three at a time, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted with excitement. What was it about this girl that had him so enthralled? Was it the gentle sway of her ponytail? The softness of her voice? The flashes of knowledge behind her eyes that lured him forward until he could trip into vast pools of green? Whatever it was, he couldn’t get enough of it.

 

Downstairs he spotted her, curious eyes studying everything around the room. She was rooted by the television, running her hands along the thick, black plastic. Her hand stilled when she saw him. Pulling back, Betty gave him a smile and a wave as the wind from the few open windows kicked up the petticoats of her polka-dot circle skirt. The sun painted her in a heavenly glow, radiance reflecting off her alabaster skin. Jughead felt his cheeks go red.

 

“Is this yours? It’s so big.”

 

Pushing aside his dirtier thoughts, he nodded. “Yeah, it is. We watch a lot of movies so it’s better to have a TV that can fit four sets of eyes. We can watch something if  you want?”

 

“Oh yes, please! I’d get a real kick out of that. What sort of films do you have?”

 

“All kinds. Depends on what you’re in the mood to watch? What’s your favorite kind?”

 

“Oh… well I like old movies most of all. My dad hardly lets us watch anything from this century.” She gave a sad little laugh and turned her eyes to the stack of DVD cases in the TV stand. “Maybe we can watch something with a happy ending? I always did like those.”

 

“You’re like my sister. She refuses to watch anything that might make her cry. I mean, she’s also ten, but it makes family movie nights impossible. Not that we do those anymore. We used to, when everyone wasn’t always working. Now we’re all hardly in the same room together for longer than a few seconds during breakfast.”

 

This was embarrassing. He couldn’t hold his tongue, couldn’t stop rambling, and he was surely making an ass of himself in front of Betty. Betty, who was too sweet to stop him, just let him talk on and on with a smile on her lips.

 

“We can also watch something on Netflix if that sounds better? I know they’ve got this huge Disney library on there and those mostly have happy endings.”

 

“That sounds swell, Jug, but I have a question. What’s a Netflix?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion, looking over her for any sign of deception. She looked like a deer caught in headlights--sheepish and embarrassed. “This is something I should know isn’t it? Sorry, my Daddy’s just really old fashioned so we don’t have a lot of things like that around the house, and I’m homeschooled so I don’t meet many people my age. We mostly still have VHS tapes.”

 

“Nothing wrong with a little vintage flare. You should see my sister’s vinyl collection. We found a bunch of old ones in the attic that she stole for herself, too. Anyway, Netflix is a streaming service. So anything they have on there you can watch, but you only have to pay for the service monthly instead of paying to buy the movie.”

 

Betty eyes were wide as she sat down slowly on the cracked leather of the couch. She traced the broken veins along the edge of the armrest, watching him fumble with the controller, cursing the batteries for choosing this moment to play dead. After a few seconds of fumbling, he was flipping through the channels.

 

There weren’t many places to sit in the small living room, so with a deep breath he moved to join her. The space between them felt heavy in ways he couldn’t explain. Then again, there were a lot of things he couldn't explain about this house, and even more he couldn’t explain about Betty. Riverdale was nothing short of a real world episode of the  _ Twilight Zone _ most days and it was starting to make his head hurt.

 

Neither of them spoke, afraid to break whatever tension had perforated the atmosphere, until she spotted something she liked. The small space shook with her movements as she leaned forward to point at the screen.

 

“What about that one?”

 

Jughead snorted. “You want to watch  _ Cinderella _ ?”

 

“It was my favorite growing up. I think a story about a princess is real sweet. She finds her happily ever after, even after years of pain, locked away from everyone and made to do dirty work all around the house. But she’s still happy at the end. Still smiling. Isn’t that a good thing?”

 

He could see it in her eyes, the pain she felt even speaking about it. Clearly, there was more than subtle sentimentality that made her speak so plainly from the heart. He felt his whole being ache with sadness. This wasn’t fair. Whatever she was suffering through wasn’t fair. Then again, was any suffering fair? He’d have to have a long talk with himself about that at a later date.

 

Jughead cautiously reached out to put a hand on her shoulder--the only sort of comfort he could think to provide. When he got close, Betty pulled back, curling into the back of the couch like a snake had shot out and threatened to bite her. There was fear in her eyes, so intense it made his stomach lurch forward in disgust. He recoiled immediately.

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I didn’t think… I’m sorry. I get if you don’t want to stay and watch the movie anymore.”

 

The tension in her body relaxed and she shook her head, offering him a gentle smile. “No, I’m sorry. I just… don’t like being touched. I hope you understand, Juggie. I want to stay and watch the movie with you if it’s still alright? I’ve been lonely for awhile and I don’t feel so lonely around you.”

 

“I don’t feel lonely around you either. Trust me, I get it. I wasn’t popular back in Toledo, but at least I had friends I knew I could trust. Here... everything is different. I know Archie wants to be friends, but he’s the kind of guy who threw me in lockers back home. Everything's so backwards here.”

 

“Maybe it’s right side up and Ohio was just backward.”

 

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” The movie was playing, but Jughead could hardly pay it any mind, too enthralled with the way Betty’s lips formed the most interesting words about the most mundane things.

 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with people being friendly. That’s how Riverdale always was, always should be. People should help each other. Care about each other. Be kind to each other. But sometimes it’s not so easy. So you have to start being kind in small places, like with your pals. And you’ve been real kind to me. And I don’t know how to thank you enough for that.”

 

He shook his head, resisting the urge to move forward and brush the fallen strands of hair from her eyes. “You don’t have to thank me. Being here is thanking me. I probably needed someone to get me to stop pouting about some unsolvable mystery. It’s nice to have a distraction.”

 

“No mystery is unsolvable, the right clues just haven’t been found. I have faith in you.”

 

“Thank you, Betty. That’s a surprisingly kind thing to say.”

 

“That’s me, surprisingly kind Betty Cooper.”

 

She laughed and then he laughed, too, the sound infectious, like little bells ringing in Christmas morning. “I don’t think that’s surprising at all.”

 

When Betty blushed, his toes curled in his old, worn out sneakers. She turned back to the movie with a smile on her pretty pink lips. Part of him wanted to reach out and touch them, touch any part of her, but he pulled back and held it in, trying to focus on the way Cinderella looked in her pink dress while the mice scuttered around in a hurry.

 

It was easy with her. Simple. They didn’t fill the dead air with anything other than silent companionship, something he was immensely grateful for. Sometimes, being the introvert he was, people tried to take the silence away from him. That was why people like Archie Andrews, no matter how well-meaning, became horribly exhausting to be around after just a few hours. It wasn’t like that with her. She understood the silence. Appreciated it. Maybe even respected it in the same ways he did.

 

“I used to have a doll like her.” She pointed to the screen. “Cinderella, I mean, not the evil stepmother. I played with dolls all the time growing up. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house much so I’d make up stories with them, but they almost always ended with a princess finding her prince.”

 

“Isn’t that a bit outdated?”

 

“Maybe, but I think everyone grows up wanting to find their prince.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

Betty laughed, rolling her eyes. “Well, I think you would have settled just fine for a princess.”

 

“Oh yeah? And what kind of princess would you imagine someone like me wanting to be with?”

 

“Someone smart. Someone clever. Someone who can put you in your place when you know you’re being full of it and you can’t stop yourself.”

 

“You think I like to be challenged?”

 

“I think you already know that about yourself,” she smiled. “You want someone who loves mysteries. Maybe even someone who is a mystery, so you can unwrap them. Someone like you... who knows what it’s like to be lonely.”

 

“And where do you propose I find a my dream girl?”

 

He felt the shift in the air. A subtle wave of sadness crept over them as she turned away with a sigh. “Somewhere. No one knows where they find anyone. Sometimes it’s the last place you look.”

 

Before his heart could properly sink--and he had a moment to think about why--his phone began to vibrate, buzzing until it fell off the table and clattered under the couch. After retrieving it, he saw what could only be described as an unholy number of text messages from a phone number he hadn’t saved. Luckily for him, Archie had the common decency to sign his first text.

 

_ Cheryl just got back to me, dude. She said you can come over today. _

 

_ Like right now. _

 

_ Has to be right now because apparently Nana Rose is up but you only get like half an hour to ask her questions. _

 

_ But like IMMEDIATELY dude.  _

 

_ Oh this is Archie by the way. _

 

_ Are you coming? I can pick you up in my dad’s truck. Or meet you there. _

 

_ Whichever. _

 

_ I’ll just come pick you up. _

 

_ Be there in five MAX. _

 

He jumped to his feet, eyes wide as the credits began to roll. “Holy shit. So you know the house right, how we talked about it? Well, I’ve been trying to follow these leads, but everything is coming up short. No one wants to talk to me, all the files are either sealed or badly written thanks to poor journalism, but Archie just texted me saying I could talk to Cheryl’s Nana Rose about it. She had to have been around when everything happened. Do you want to come along? Archie’s picking me up. Not that I want to know how he knows where I live.”

 

“Oh, no.” Betty smiled, shaking her head. She looked towards the clock and frowned. “It’s getting late so I have to go home. I really couldn’t intrude anyway, not on boys’ business.”

 

“It wouldn’t be an intrusion. I um… I think I’d like you around.”

 

“That’s awfully sweet, Juggie, but I have to go before Daddy finds out I’ve been gone too long.”

 

It was frightening to think how disappointed he felt. This would go on a long list of things he would unpack at a later time, preferably after he’d solved the troubling mystery of Elm Street. “Okay, I get it. Maybe next time you come around I can fill you in on what you missed? If you think they’ll be a next time.”

 

“Yeah. Next time. I promise a next time.”

 

He walked her to the door, biting his tongue to keep from asking the questions on his mind and speaking the words on the tip of his tongue.

 

“Goodbye Juggie. See you around.”

 

“You sure I can’t walk you home?”

 

“Oh no. I’ll probably take the long way and you need as much time with Miss Rose as you can get. Don’t worry about me.”

 

Archie texted him again, and by the time he’d looked back up from his phone, Betty was gone. A powder blue pick-up pulled up to his driveway, that familiar ginger swatch of hair peeking from the window. A girl was sitting in the front seat finishing off her nail polish. She was one of the girls from the diner, the one in purple lipstick who looked about as unwavering as a stone statue, but not as terrifying as the harsh tongue of Cheryl Blossom.

 

“Veronica Lodge,” she greeted when he opened the door. “Charmed to meet you.”

 

Archie gave a sheepish smile before pulling out of the drive. “Sorry. She wanted to tag along and when I got the call we were… um… busy. Ronnie, this is my dad’s best friend’s son, Jughead. We’re friends now, too.”

 

“Currently to be decided. You’ve made yourself incredibly useful so the odds are looking ever in your favor.” Jughead looked between them, trying to piece together what--other than both being remarkably good looking--the couple had in common.

 

“Archiekins has a love of wayward out of towners, so I’m not surprised he’s latched onto you. I was born and raised in New York City. I like it here though. Things are simple.”

 

“Tell that to the decades old murder investigation I’m trying to solve. Nothing about this place makes any sense except maybe Pop Tate and his burgers. Which, to be fair, are criminally delicious and might have cocaine in them, but that’s a different thing for a different day.”

 

Veronica laughed. “Oh Archie was right, you’re hilarious. I don’t mind a little excitement, though I’m not usually one for murder mysteries, I never could deny myself a good plot. You know, Capote’s a favorite author of mine.”

 

“Riveting. Arch, you said we had half an hour right? Is this including travel time?”

 

“Afraid so. Cheryl’s… um… well, she’s Cheryl. The more you get to know her, the more you’ll get what I mean.”

 

“Trust me, one interaction with the she-demon was enough. I get it plenty. Now I’m going to request a little quiet while I make up a rough draft of what I need to ask Nana so I can make sure I get as much out of her as I need to.”

 

He remembered Betty’s hasty disappearance, and turned to Archie. “Weird question, but did you happen to see a girl walk by youre truck. Either of you? I had a friend over and I wanted to see if she made it home safe.”

 

“We didn’t see anyone as far as I remember. But I wasn’t really looking at anything but the road. Sorry man.”

 

Jughead frowned, briefly looking back at his house. She must have gone out the side door and hopped through the neighbors yard.

 

The drive to Thornhill was quick and relatively painless, the couple up front chatting mindlessly about what Jughead assumed to be high school Riverdalian politics--prom kings and queens and who was taking who to the next school dance. Cheryl’s manor was just as impressive as the name would suggest. The windows were stained glass and the grandness of it all reminded him of a gothic cathedral. It fit the Machiavellian rumors he’d already heard about the Blossoms and their cutthroat maple syrup industry.

 

When the iron gates opened to reveal a gravel path winding through an old cemetery, one that had to be walked, not driven along, he felt his stomach twist into knots. Everything about Riverdale left him uneasy. Nothing felt like it should--each object just slightly out of place, leaving the world painted in vast uncanny valley brush strokes. The ease with which all the townsfolk handled death was the most troubling. In a small town, you expected the death of the young to be loud, impossibly so, deafening the world with cries of sorrowful loss. Instead they were hushed, sweeping whatever troubles there were away with a practiced hand, sewing loose lips closed until they were pulled too tight to talk.

 

Nana Rose was exactly the kind of woman he thought she would be for the Edgar Allen Poe novella he had just stepped into. She was an old woman with wispy white hair, except for a single strand of red the wound up in a single curl. One of her eyes was made of glass and Cheryl had to push her around in an old wicker wheelchair. They were guided into the tea parlor where he noticed a surprising lack of hospitality.

 

“We don’t bring out our good china for people like you.” Cheryl rolled her eyes and sat beside her withered grandmother, taking her hand. “You have twenty minutes. If I think you’re pushing too hard or upsetting Nana, I’ll kick you out on the spot. And only  _ you  _ get to talk, new boy. I don’t even want to know why the Ice Queen and her boy toy are here.”

 

“I’m the one who asked if Jug could come, Cheryl.”

 

Veronica waved her boyfriend off. “Don’t think too hard on it. She’s just being cruel. What a surprise.”

 

“You live in the house.” Nana Rose’s voice was hardly a whisper on the steady breeze. She commanded the room with her very presence, the teenagers falling silent as she extended a single bony finger outwards, directly at Jughead. “I can see it on you, all those terrible things that happened there.”

 

“What sort of things happened there? No one will tell me and I can’t find it anywhere in the papers. It’s like the whole thing is just gone.”

 

She ignored him, her gaze fixated somewhere off in the distance, like she had wondered back in time. “That man was very wicked, bitter, angry that he had to work how he did. He thought he deserved better than us, but no one else thought so. He was always walking around like he had something to hide, like he was looking down at all of us and no one could see what was going on inside his soul. But I could feel it--something wicked.

 

“And when the bombs… when they started talking bombs, he never stopped talking about them. Always finding things to put away in his attic, always hiding things away and keeping them all for himself. He was friends with my brother, you know, or so they thought. No one so much as suspected when he showed up dead in Sweetwater.”

 

Jughead felt sick. How many wicked intentions had the people of Riverdale covered up for the sake of small town comradery, of painting this perfect image of wholesome family values to the outside world. “The man, he killed other people? How many?”

 

“Oh dozens, I’d say, but no one could find the bodies. The homeless and the youths would go missing and no one really missed them so no one really bothered to look. He was up to something terrible. Something he didn’t want anyone to know. Everyone said he seemed so nice. What a nice boy he was. What a nice man he was. But we know now, don’t we? How little nice can mean.”

 

She sighed, plucking at the embroidered flower on her handkerchief. “And that poor girl. Such a shame what happened to her.”

 

“What girl? You mean the daughter in the house?”

 

“That delicate little blossom who never got the bloom. Oh she was the sweetest thing that girl, always around to help if someone needed it. I wish I remembered her name. But we all forgot. We all forgot and then we let him get away with it, too.”

 

“I thought the daughter got away,” Veronica spoke up, unable to keep her mouth shut any longer. “That’s what I’d always heard anyway, from the stories I hear from Archie’s friends and Daddy when he’s willing to entertain me. That it was just the husband and the son who died that night.”

 

“No, not her, dear girl, the other one. We’re all responsible for that poor girl. We did nothing. We just let it rot. Just like we let her rot and no one even knows where.”

 

“Wait. Wait, you mean to tell me there was someone else. He killed someone else and we just...and no one talks about it?” Jughead felt sick. Repulsed. “What the hell kind of place is this? At least Toledo is honest about its murder statistics. You call yourselves one of the safest places in the country, but maybe it has something to do with all the unreported criminal activity going on. Do you even have a Sheriff? Does he do his job?”

 

“Killer Keller? Please, he couldn’t find a needle if I pricked him in the eye with it.”

 

Archie’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, Cheryl, don’t say stuff like that. You know that’s Kevin’s dad and he works as hard as he can. He’s not responsible for whatever the heck happened in the 50’s! He wasn’t even alive. I’m pretty sure. Probably.”

 

“I hope she visits soon.”

 

They turned to Nana Rose again, Cheryl taking her grandmother’s hand and giving it a little squeeze. “If she’s dead, she can’t visit, Nana. that’s silly talk.”

 

“Oh? Is she? The poor thing hardly knows it, then.”

 

“I think it’s time for you to go. You’ve harassed my grandmother enough for one evening, and made her go senile again. So I suggest you leave, and don’t forget I’ll be calling in a favor, Andrews. I want to secure my place as prom royalty and you’re just the running mate I need to do it.”

 

They all left the house quickly, still reeling from the revelations that had just taken place. Another girl. Another girl murdered by the same man who had murdered his son and set his home on fire. They stood there speechless for a moment before Archie unlocked his car and they all got inside. Only the radio filled the empty space in the gloomy silence for a long time.

 

“Do you think… what Nana Rose said is true?” Veronica’s voice sounded tight, frightened. “About the girl.”

 

“I can’t think she’d have any reason to lie to us. Unless she’s remembering it wrong and imagining the son as a daughter?”

 

Archie groaned, head smacking against the seat of the car. “Fuck man. This gets worse and worse. You always hear the stories, but you never like think it means anything more than something small. Like it doesn’t feel real or heavy until you remember someone died. And they don’t know who? They didn’t even figure it out. And if this girl is really dead, then it was so long ago and no one like… cared to figure it out. That’s the worst part. That people didn’t care.”

 

“You are… surprisingly deep for a football player.”

 

“That’s my Archiekins, deep, handsome, and very talented with his hands.”

 

All the tension evaporated, a reprieve Jughead was more than grateful for. A rock had been sitting heavy on his chest for the better part of the evening as more and more disconnected threads were added to his tangled mass of non-linear yarn. Every time he tried to find where one piece began and the other ended, his head would start to ache and the power that be would smile down and laugh at the weakness of humanity. He would have to remind himself to write a thank you to Veronica Lodge later. Maybe the teens of Riverdale weren’t as terrifyingly shallow as he had originally thought.

 

“And then you ruined it. You made it terrible and uncomfortable for the guy sitting in the backseat. The third wheel. You third wheeled me and I don’t even know you well enough to be okay with being third wheeled.”

 

“If you want to, you can keep third wheeling,” Archie frowned, shaking his head. “That sounded bad, let me try that again. If you want to hang still, to sort of… I don’t know forget about all this spooky shit for a minute, we could go to Pop’s for burgers and a shake?”

 

Jughead looked down at his clock. Neither of his parents would be home for awhile and maybe it would be good to get away from all the worry in his mind and the sadness in his heart. This was not the kind of story he had suspected he'd be uncovering only weeks after moving to Riverdale and it was starting to take a toll on him. Some days, he forgot that he was only in high school and not some famous crime novelist searching for answers to life’s ever evolving mysteries.

 

“Yeah, sure. I could probably do that. As long as I don’t have to witness you two going at each other in a booth. Then I am never acknowledging either of you again.”

 

“Not really a romance kind of guy?” Veronica teased.

 

“You can say that again.”

 

“Well what about the girl?” It was strangely endearing the way Archie tried so hard to be involved. “The one you said was leaving? Is that strictly platonic?”

 

Jughead groaned, shaking his head. “I’m not talking about this. One, I have no idea. Two, as far as I can guess, she’s absolutely unobtainable.”

 

“Not with that attitude. I’m sure she’ll come around. You’re…” Veronica thought for a moment, “charming in your own special way.”

 

“Gee, I sure can see why Archie dates you. What a confidence boost that was.”

 

It was nice to forget about the worries of the day and remember what it felt like to be a teenager, tucked in the back booth of some diner, listening to the jukebox scratch on songs that were overplayed while inhaling the biggest burger on the menu. 

 

He crawled into bed that night exhausted in more ways than one. Physically, he was drained, but emotionally it felt like he was one frayed electrical current, repeatedly being dunked under water with no escape in sight.

 

Jughead reached out in the cold darkness, fumbling for the edge of his sheets so he could pull them closer. He was surprised when he pulled at the soft pink string that hooked so easily between his fingers and the cool heavy metal that hung from it. A key. He watched it swing for a long time, intoxicated by the pendulum until the darkness clouded his vision and sleep swallowed him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr @tory-b. I take theories there too!


	4. A Doll's House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the dollhouse opens to reveal some disturbing truth, the mystery starts to unravel in a way that might be even more trouble than Jughead originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, promise, promise, this is my last update of anything for the week and I will stop being a greedy posting whore! I just had apparently shit loads of ideas this week and couldn't help myself! Thank you all for encouraging my bad posting behaviors. I can't believe i'm 2/2 on post ep fics! I think this week I've posted...4 things including this. Oh boy. It certainly will not always be like that! But thank you for letting me have fun this week <3
> 
> Just as a warning: this chapter is when things start to get heavy, and from this point forward the mystery is going to reveal some disturbing truths. I hope you all stay with me and enjoy <3

The next morning, Jughead awoke to the sun slipping through his haphazardly closed curtains, bathing his room in the orange early morning glow. He stayed in the comfort of his warm bed for a long time, lost in the thoughts that plagued his mind. The room morphed with the fading hours as he watched the rays of light dance across the outdated wallpaper. His chest felt cold, the iron of the key pooled on his chest making his entire body tingle with anticipation. Realistically, he knew what to do next. Stand up, go upstairs, and open the locked dollhouse. 

 

Fear clutched at his nerves, biting and gnashing until they were frayed bundles at the tips of his fingers and every movement filled him with anxious dread. Perhaps he was pinning too many of his hopes on a single thing. For all he knew, this was the wind up to an old music box, ditched during one of the many moves in and out of his Elm Street home by previous tenants. It didn’t feel that way. The weight on his chest was heavier than just metal.

 

Jughead Jones was not a superstitious man by nature. Science, facts, reality were all far too scary and dark to bother adding ghouls and ghosts into the mix. Humanity’s sins were reflected in the cinema they consumed, the need to find something spookier in hopes of feeling more at ease about the darkness that swirled in their hearts, frothing over an already full and boiling kettle. The world didn’t need horror movies when flicking on the news station for more than a half hour at a time could instill the same sense of uneasy dread.

 

He didn’t believe in black cats and walking under ladders. There was enough bad luck in his family to smash as many mirrors as he wanted without it adding too much to their lifelong sentence. And yet, as he traced along the intricate loops on the head of the key, he felt something indescribable, like someone was reaching through the atmosphere and trying to tell him something. Each time he squeezed, the blade bit into his skin, sending a pulse that frazzled his nerves.

 

The alarm on his phone started to buzz, vibrating the mattress and shaking the last bit of sleep from his consciousness. He walked to the window and peered outside. Despite it being the middle of summer, the edge of the window looked frost bitten. Part of him had hoped to see Betty where she always was, spinning in a sweet little sundress, walking along the crumbling pavement, dragging her stick. She would look up, staring straight through his soul, and all the convoluted thoughts in his head would start to make sense again. But she wasn’t outside, so he trudged away from the window.

 

Under his feet, the tile was impossibly cold, like Jack Frost had swept through all of Riverdale and chilled it to the bones. Jughead slipped on his shoes and an old sweater as he tried to dodge around the floorboards he knew creaked the most. In the bathroom, his stomach gurgled in unrest until he promised he’d grab food before making his terrifying attic trip.

 

Maybe he was stalling. In fact, he knew he was stalling. But no one in the house was up right now except for him, the only reason a known night owl would set his alarm for as early as it was. The dishes piled in the sink, cereal caked to the white ceramics as murky milk and water separated unpleasantly, let him know FP was already at work for the day. Early morning construction waited for no man. His mother wouldn’t be up for another hour to get ready for her shift at the camp. Jellybean would decide over a piece of stale, burnt toast smeared with peanut butter if she would join Gladys or hang out the house with her miserably brooding brother for the day. More and more she’d been opting for the former, making friends as quickly as her effervescent personality would allow. Already she’d been invited to two sleepovers and a birthday party.

 

Jughead scraped together a meager breakfast. They needed to go grocery shopping--and badly. A few tomatoes were rotten in the bottom of the produce drawer, and he cracked the last of the eggs into an oiled pan with a shake of salt and pepper. The heat popped and fizzed. He picked up the pen from the windowsill and added  _ eggs _ right below Jellybean’s hastily scrawled  _ chicken nuggets _ to their ever growing list of necessities.

 

He ate in silence, listening to the gentle howl of the wind, beating against the shutters as leaves swirled outside. Fall was creeping in slowly, little by little until the whole town would be painted in muted reds, oranges, and browns. Jughead had passed by Riverdale High a few times before. It was an outdated building--everything was here--but held the test of time better than the rest. The football field was always in use, coach’s whistles going off frantically as the summer season crept to a close.

 

Quickly, he washed and dried his dishes, pulling out the last scoop of dog food and pouring it into Hot Dog’s bowl for whenever the lazy beast decided to wake up. The key in his pajama pocket smacked against his leg, another reminder that he was biding his time in fear of something. Jughead Jones loved a mystery, and yet the more this one unraveled, the less and less he felt sure of the outcome.

 

To put it frankly, Nana Rose had scared the shit out of him. Like a knife constantly twisting in the pits of his stomach, nothing felt right. A girl. A young girl had died because of the same crazed lunatic who had murdered his son and tried to set his house on fire. No wonder everyone in the neighborhood stared at any member of the Joneses strangely when they exited that red painted door looking less than morbid. That man was the worst kind there could ever be and the town had done nothing to punish him.

 

Jughead pulled the key from his pocket and sighed. It was now or never.

 

The attic creaked with the wind and the weight of his body pressing down on the uneven floor boards. How dust could accumulate so fast when he’d been up here the day before was a mystery--one he might bother solving after the familicide, and apparent homicide, had been put to rest properly. Jughead Jones and the Case of the Collective Dust Bunnies. It didn’t sound too bad in his head.

 

Staring at the dollhouse, he could feel his heart slowly migrate down into his stomach, burning from the same acidic rage that left his hands shaking. This was not like the stories he’d written for his newspaper, nor like the countless time he’d buried his head in Capote’s novel. This was real and every step he made was one that had consequences, impacting the very fabric of reality. That was a lot of pressure to put on a sixteen year old with an insatiable appetite for answers.

 

He dropped to his knees and pressed the shaking key against the lock. It slid in effortlessly. One twist and he heard the tell-tale click before the heavy metal clattered to the ground. He sat there, staring at the dollhouse for a long time, until finally reaching out and pulling the two pieces apart.

 

The rusted hinges creaked in displeasure as inch by inch he separated the two halves. They locked before Jughead could get them to spread completely, but he could look inside the wide crack and make out enough of the interior.

 

On the right bottom, he spotted the kitchen. Something had eaten away at the wooden table legs, leaving it hobbled and collapsed despite the remnants of dried glue clinging to the dollhouse flooring. They were cut from the exact same pattern as what he stood on now. An identical replication. A little teapot was knocked to the side in the upstairs bedroom. The sheets on the bed were moth eaten, but he could still spot the detailed embroidery. Someone had loved this very much. Everything seemed ordinary until he adjusted his vision to the left side of the house.

 

In the top bed was a hastily sewn together doll. One of the button eyes was missing, but what was more troubling was the little toy knife sticking out of the blood stained shirt. His stomach twisted in knots as he stared at the macabre scene in front of him. The door to the right of the bedroom said “bathroom” but the room itself was scorched beyond recognition. If he squinted, Jughead could see a few bits of burnt cloth--the same material the murdered doll was made out of--amongst the ash.

 

It was a perfect replica of the night of the murders, at least as far as he had been told in hushed tones and terrified whispers.

 

People were sick. Sick and horrible with terrible senses of humor. Someone had no doubt put together the makeshift scene, hoping that some poor soul would stumble across it the next time a few unlucky inhabitants ended up at 111 Elm Street.  It made his blood boil.

 

Just as Jughead was about to close the dollhouse and lock it tight--perfectly content with knowing it was nothing but a sick dead end--he spotted something. Everything about the toy was a perfect replica of the home he lived in, right down to the crack on the front door steps. The crown molding in the bedrooms had been painstakingly recreated to absurd perfection. Where then was the attic?

 

The space it should have occupied was instead filled with tiny plastic toys, surrounding a single bed placed squarely in the center of the room. The sheets were pink, fraying on the edges, eaten away by hungry moths that died trying to escape. Tucked in the sheets was another doll. She had long, stringy hair pinned to her hastily stuffed head, a pink nightgown covering her disfigured arms.

 

There wasn’t much inside the space. Odds and ends, a single vanity that looked identical to the one he’d dug around in to find the key to the dollhouse shoved into the back corner. Jughead reached out, fumbling until he plucked the doll out of the bed. From the comforter fell a torn piece of paper, yellowed and faded from the passage of time. The writing was hard to make out aside from the long loop of an ‘l’ or the short square of a ‘t’. Jughead squinted until the words started to make sense.

 

_ For my littlest doll, to be molded to perfection, I give you a gift. _

_ Love,  _

_ Your Father _

 

He shoved the note in his pocket, to be added to his file folder of clues, along with the little doll. Reaching back inside the dollhouse against his better judgement, he fumbled to find any more clues tucked inside. The bed uprooted easily. The glue that had been used to hold the pieces in place had long outstayed its welcome, crumbling with a single push. He felt the wood and, to his surprise, the divets carved into it. After a few attempts, it was clear to him. Three letters had been carved into the floorboards.

 

PEC.

 

My Littlest Doll.

 

Your father.

 

Three clues that when strung together might finally begin to illuminate the complexities of this case. If he could figure out what it all meant at least.

 

He knew the family had a daughter, though her name, just like everyone else’s, was unlisted from the records. There was no way to find her information and get in contact, if she was even still alive, to figure out of this little house had once belonged to her. For every answer, there were only more questions.

 

What troubled him most was the attic. Why had it been turned into a bedroom? There were plenty of other spaces to house a child inside the house. There was even one just below, painted pink, filled with the remnants of little posters made from construction paper. His heart ached. All of him ached, and for the first time, he asked himself why on earth he’d bothered to dig up the past when it so clearly wanted to be laid to rest.

 

“Jughead?”

 

He snapped the house shut, locking it up as he tried to calm his nerves. “Jesus Christ Jellybean make noise when you go places! When you walk into rooms! Something! You’re way too light on your feet for your own good.”

 

The ten year old rolled her eyes and finished climbing up the stairs. “Did you get it open?”

 

“Yeah I did.” He remembered the stabbed doll corpse and how unsettled he had been by it. This was not the sort of thing her young eyes and gentle heart should be privy to. “But don’t look inside, okay? I’m locking it up and you shouldn’t… shouldn’t peak. Promise me, JB? You aren’t going to look?”

 

“I don’t want to. I don’t like that thing. It makes me feel bad whenever I look at it for too long, just like being here makes me feel bad. I hate it. And the worse I feel, the sadder I get.” She paused, trying to stop her shaking. “Something bad happened here.”

 

“I know. I know. Come on, let’s leave while you tell me why you came up here, other than to scare your doting older brother into a heart attack.”

 

Jellybean giggled, descending in a hurry. Jughead snapped the attic door shut and tucked the ladder back into the wall. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to make the trek up there ever again. (The bitter part of his brain laughed at his optimism.)

 

“Mom just left for work and forgot to make me breakfast. There’s not really anything in the fridge and I think dad ate the last of the cereal without milk. Can we go get breakfast?” She gripped the sleeve of his sweater, pulling once and the guilt washed over him.

 

He should have thought more. He should have remembered to leave something to eat for his sister this morning, but his thoughts had gotten the better of him and he’d been so enraptured by the mystery that he simply forgot. There was still a little spending money in his bank account from months and months of saving up back in Toledo and he could never say no to a second breakfast.

 

“Yeah of course. Go get changed out of your pajamas and we’ll go to Pop’s, okay? And don’t forget your monkey. I know your aids are in right now without it but if you lose them, it’s going to be a problem. Remember last time?”

 

She pouted, grumbling something he didn’t really want to hear in clarity, but turned and stomped upstairs. Watching the swing of her oversized purple Rapunzel pajama bottoms, he felt sick all over again. How old was the doll locked in the attic? Was she like his sister, so young and sweet but kept hidden for reasons unknown? This man, whoever he was, had been a monster living amongst humanity.

 

He ran upstairs and threw on a pair of jeans before shaking out the dust in his sweater. He tossed his hat on his head and grabbed his wallet. Jellybean wasn’t old enough to go on the bike, so they were going to have to walk to Pop’s. The weather had lightened up and the wind had calmed to a cool breeze. When his sister came down in mismatched socks and a tutu skirt, all he could do was smile.

 

“Looking good, kid. Ready to rock and roll?”

 

“You sound like dad.”

 

Jughead frowned. “Do I? Every time I sound like dad, you have full permission to kick me in the shins.”

 

“That’s a lot of power.”

 

“Use it wisely.”

 

He locked the door behind them, making sure she stood close to his side. Riverdale was safe, but growing up in Toledo had made him protective, sometimes to the point she called it annoying. It felt better this way. After years of dodging gang affiliations and robberies, Jughead was maybe a little jumpier than the average bear.

 

The walk to Pop’s was slow and uneventful. JB wandered just ahead of him, spinning around single lamp posts and kicking rocks along the pavement. The omnipresent clouds had dissipated for the day and a few rays of sunshine dared to peak through, bathing the streets in rare rays of gold and yellow.

 

Jughead tired not to be too preoccupied with his thoughts, but as the mystery slowly unraveled around it, there were few moments where the curiosity was not at the forefront of his mind. Now, with the clue of the dollhouse contents added, things were even more complex. Who was PEC? Had she lived in the house before the unnamed family? Or was she one of the fleeting residents before his family had arrived? Maybe she was the daughter who had escaped, leaving all her things in her home and never returning to avoid the pain of resurfacing trauma. If only. If only there was more to go off of and not just discombobulated clues that left his head aching and his crime-solving itch unscratched.

 

Pop’s was the same as it always was, because everything in this town was the same as it always was. They slid into a booth near the back and Jellybean waved at a couple of the waitresses who already knew most of the Jones family on a first name basis. Pop Tate smiled from behind the counter. He was always cheery, with rosy cheeks and a smile so infectious it was impossible to feel sad. You would never have guessed a man like him had almost kicked out a group of kids when they’d started whispering about the Elm Street Murders.

 

“Well if it isn’t my favorite new recurring customers. How does the usual sound?”

 

JB beamed. “Sounds great. You’re the best. Can I get a chocolate milkshake, too? With sprinkles. And fruit loops.”

 

“Well, that’s up to your brother I think. But I bet if you bat your eyelashes and look cute enough, he won’t say no.”

 

“Pop! You can’t tell her all the secrets. She’ll get too wise.” Jughead smiled, crumbling up the paper wrapper from the straw and throwing it just right so it tangled in the dark, inky locks of his sister’s hair. 

 

“Hey! You’re such a butt.”

 

“No, you’re such a butt.”

 

“Nuh uh you’re the butt!”

 

“I am definitely not the butt if you want that chocolate milkshake.”

 

JB deflated, groaning in defeat. “Fine. I’m the butt.”

 

“Perfect,” Jughead smiled at Pop. Maybe this wasn’t a terrible place to start getting a few answers. He needed a good way to weasel in, to make the conversation flow naturally so he didn’t assault a poor old man about something that he obviously viewed as traumatic. “Two chocolate milkshakes. One of them disgusting and the other delicious.”

 

“You got it, kids. I’ll have that out in a jiffy.”

 

The waitress came by and dropped off their shakes while the burgers sat sizzling on the griddle. He could smell them from his spot and tried to fight off the salivation. Everything in this place was dangerously good. If living in Riverdale meant getting to eat at the best diner on the west coast--maybe the whole world--Jughead wondered why the leading cause of death was murder instead of a clogged artery induced heart attack.

 

“You’re going to do something stupid.” The way Jellybean watched him was startling wise. She had been around him for far too long if she could read his micro-expressions so clearly. “You have your mystery face on. It’s the one you got when you used to write at the school paper back in Toledo and an article was being tricky or a source was being mean. And it’s the same look you’ve got a lot now that you’re trying to figure out the… um… the murder that happened in our house.”

 

He winced, reaching out and taking her hand. Slowly, he rubbed soothing circles into her palm, the way he always did when she was a baby and was too afraid of the dark to go to sleep on her own and they would cuddle up stuffed in her toddler princess castle bed. “Hey, I’m sorry. I know it kind of scares you but I promise you’ll always be safe when I’m around. You know that, right?”

 

“Uh huh. I know, Jug. You’re the best brother in the whole world and I know you I’ll be okay. I just get sad that something happened. That someone died and it’s not fair. She shouldn’t have died the way she did.”

 

Startled, Jughead sat back.  _ She.  _ He hadn’t mentioned Nana Rose’s little story to Jellybean, so how on earth did she know? Before he could ask, Pop was standing beside them, two trays of burgers and fries in his hands.

 

“Order up. Hope everything is as good as you remember.”

 

“It always is, Pop.” He took a bite and groaned, letting the melty cheese mingle with the warm patty on his tongue. Food like this was heavenly.

 

“Well, if there’s anything else I can get you, feel free to ask.”

 

“Actually,” Jughead looked to JB, apologetic. She nodded and clipped her hearing aids off so the sound of whatever horrors he was about to ask stayed far away from her ears. “I had a question. I know you didn’t want to talk about it, but the murders that happened in my house... JB’s been freaking out about them ever since we heard. So, I wanted to see if there was anything you could tell me that would sort of help ease her fears.” 

 

Maybe it was wrong to use his little sister to extort an old man into telling him his traumatic memories, but any good detective would do the same. Probably. He, at least, was not holding a gun and asking for ransom like some 1920’s private eyes did. (Not yet, anyway.) But desperate times called for desperate measures. If he didn’t start digging, there would be no end in sight to this case.

 

Pops sighed, worrying his grease stained apron between his hands. “There’s a lot in this town that folks don’t like to talk about. I like to keep it that way, frankly, not upset the status quo. No one talks about the girl who died. She used to babysit me sometimes when I was growing up and my mom and pop had to go to work. She never treated us any different, even when everyone else did. It’s a shame, a damn shame, that we lost her.”

 

“Who is her, Pop? Everyone just keeps saying her and it doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know who ‘ _ her’  _ is and every time I scratch my brain, it doesn’t get any better.”

 

“I won’t go spreading dead names like that, Jughead, so don’t ask again. But that family, everyone talks about their son who died, the daughter who ran away with the mom, but no one talks about the little girl. There were three of them--kids I mean. One day, a year or two before that man went psycho and stabbed his son, their youngest daughter just went up and missing.

 

“We all knew. We all knew it had something to do with her dad, but no one said a thing. We whispered. We gossiped. At the hair salon, my mom used to trade stories with all the hairdressers about what could have happened to her. No one did a thing to find out. Most of them figured she just up and ran away, tired of her parents and the way they always kept her locked up and hidden, saying things like she wasn’t right in the head or she wasn’t thinking straight that day.

 

“And then? When the murder-suicide happened and he tried to burn down his house, we all figured it out. But we didn’t say a damn thing. Just more whispers and gossip until everyone started forgetting her name. Forgetting all their names, fearing that if they whispered it enough times, they might appear and we’d get the God fearing punishment we all deserve for letting it, for letting them, die like they did. This town is full of sinners, and that girl wasn’t one of them. She was good and I miss her every day. When I go to church I say a prayer that she’s happier now, safer, away from her father, because that’s what she deserves in this world. A little peace, quiet, and rest. So, Jughead, stop digging and give her that.”

 

By the end of his story, there were tears in Pop Tate’s eyes. He grabbed the hat off the top of his hand and wiped his face clean. “Can you promise me that?”

 

He wanted to. God did Jughead want to. He wanted to forget everything he’d learned and shove this horrible plot deep into the pits of hell where it belonged, but this was something he couldn’t let go, not now that he’d sunk his teeth into it. Things were finally starting to make sense again. The third child, the missing daughter, maybe that’s who the dollhouse had belonged to.

 

“I can’t make that promise. Not when I think it would be better for everyone to know the truth. Maybe she does need to rest, but how can she do that when everyone keeps pretending it’s not real and pushing the truth away. You know that old cliche: the truth can set you free.”

 

“I won’t argue with you. I don’t have it in me to do it when I’m as old as I am. You do what you think is best, but I can’t answer any more of your questions, Jug. I hope you understand. I don’t think my heart could take it.”

 

He nodded. “I understand. Thank you, Pop, really. You’ve been the most help out of everyone so far. I probably won’t tell JB a lot of what you just said, but I’ll tell her there’s nothing to worry about. Thanks.”

 

With a nod of mutual understanding, Pop went back behind the counter, silently flipping patties while the tape in the jukebox skipped in the middle of a song no one knew the words to. JB flipped her aids back on, staring at him with wide eyes.

 

“I can read lips.”

 

“I know you can, Jelly. Let’s just… not talk about it right here. Respect, for Pop Tate, alright?”

 

The evening’s tone had shifted into something a bit more somber, and the siblings sat in silence while they finished their food. Or rather, JB ate half her burger and then gave the rest to her brother to scarf down while she watched with a vague mix of interest and nausea. 

 

“It’s gross you can eat all that.”

 

He shrugged, pulling out a few bills to pay for their food and leave a decent tip as a thank you to Pop. “I’m a growing boy.”

 

“You stopped growing like a year ago. I’m the one who’s growing.”

 

“Hm? Definitely not. You’ll stay a dwarf forever, little bridge troll.”

 

“That’s a contradiction! Trolls are tall and dwarves are short!”

 

Jughead frowned and pushed her lightly. “Who taught you to be so smart? You’re like what, five? You shouldn’t know what a contradiction is.”

 

“I have this really annoying older brother who’s so smart he probably reads the dictionary for fun before going to bed at night, and sometimes he says big words until I start understanding what they mean. He’s an annoying dork.”

 

“Yikes. Sounds like it. You should ditch him as soon as possible.”

 

She laughed, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. “I love you, Juggie. Promise me you won’t leave me alone? Sometimes I’m scared. I don’t want to be lonely like my friends are.”

 

“I promise I won’t.” He ran a hand through her hair, gentle with the braids he’d wound for her during dinner. “Which of your friends is lonely?”

 

“She told me her name is Nancy, like Nancy Drew, but her last name isn’t Drew. She always smiles, but I can tell she’s sad. I hear her even when I don’t have my aids in. Sometimes she’ll read to me and tell me stories so I’m not scared at night anymore.”

 

He tried not to be too troubled by her admission. There were likely no strange women climbing in his little sister’s window to read her bedtime stories at night. When she was younger, Jellybean used to make up friends to help ease the loneliness and isolation she felt being the only girl in her classes with hearing aids. Maybe, with the move aggravating tensions, she had started up on it again. “That’s really nice of her, but don’t you think you’re a little too old to be having imaginary friends, Jelly?”

 

She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes into a comically small glare. “Yeah, probably.”

 

Just as they were starting their walk back to Elm Street, Jughead spotted the familiar swing of a blonde ponytail tied in a pink ribbon and a sunny smile. When Betty spotted them, she lit up and waved. Her dress was fluffier today--a round circle skirt that he wanted to watch her twirl in. Indulgently, he allowed a moment of fantasy, where they were at the old Drive-In together, dancing to American Graffiti and he was holding her close all through the night. Hopefully, he wasn’t blushing.

 

Judging by Jellybean’s smug eyebrow raise, he definitely was.

 

“Betty. Hi. I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

 

“It’s a small town, Jughead. You should expect to see me everywhere,” she teased.

 

“Yeah, I probably should.” He felt his sister’s quick kick to his shin and gestured down. “This is my little sister Jellybean. JB, this is Betty. We’re… friends.”

 

For once in his life, he looked and saw his sister standing there, utterly silent. Her expression was strange, one he’d never seen before. She was looking at Betty like she had found the fleeting reflection of someone familiar. It sent a chill down his spine and he itched to break the eerie silence.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Jellybean.” Betty offered her a gentle smile, but something about it seemed nervous. “I heard a lot about you from your brother. He is constantly flattering.”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Jughead’s eyes went wide. “JB, you can’t just… what does that even mean? Betty, I’m sorry about that, she’s not usually like this. I’m the one in the family with the shitty filter, not her.”

 

But she continued, reaching her hand out to take Betty’s. “You’re not okay. I’m sorry. You seem sad. And your clothes are dirty.”

 

It was the same thing that had happened before, back at home, where the second someone's hand came too close, Betty would jump back, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. She tried to smile again, it was shakier this time, unsure. Her eyes snapped around the barren parking lot, anxious to see anything past the few scattered cars.

 

“F-fine. Fine. I’m fine. It’s so sweet that you’re concerned, JB. But I’m just swell. My skirts a little dirty because I was playing out in Fox Forest today. I got bored at home so I went on a hike. I do that sometimes, just enjoy nature. If you haven’t been to Sweetwater yet, you should go sometime soon before the weather gets too cold. It’s cold out here, isn’t it?”

 

“Betty, I’m sorry about JB. Forsythia, you seriously need to apologize.”

 

“No! No, she doesn’t. It’s okay, really.” She was still shaking, nervous energy radiating off of her in thick waves. “Please, it’s okay. I should. I have to go. Back home. I need to.”

 

“Wait, before you go. What’s your address? I want to come visit you. Maybe.”

 

Betty’s eyes went wide and for a moment, he thought they might have flickered down to look at Jellybean as the two girls exchanged unsaid words before she finally graced him with that seaside green again. Slowly, she relaxed. She almost looked resigned.

 

“You’ll know it when you see it. It’s the house just across the street, four past the mailbox that looks like it’s a little crooked. I’m not home a lot. I like to walk around whenever I can because it gets stuffy in there. But I have to go back now. It was nice seeing you both around again.”

 

Before he could say anything else, she turned away from them, running as fast as she could until she disappeared over the hill. Jughead turned to his sister, trying not to let himself boil over with rage.

 

“Seriously who the fuck raised you to act like that? Did you see how uncomfortable you made… Hey… Jelly are you okay?” She looked sick. That kind of sick she always looked when she was in the attic for too long. The kind of sick that made his brother senses tingle and all anger fade from his mind. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

 

“I want to go home. Please.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah okay, we can go home. Hop up.”

 

With practiced ease, Jughead got her onto his back, her little arms wrapped around his neck and her legs around his waist. Every few steps, he could make out her choked sobs. His shirt would be tear stained, in desperate need of a wash, but he kept himself quiet. He carried her all the way back to Elm Street, up the stairs, and tucked her properly into bed. She had mumbled something about needing a nap during their walk and to deny her that would be cruel, even with the midday sun still up high. With a hug and a kiss, she faded into comfortable bliss, the worry finally fading from her too young features.

 

Back downstairs, he encountered his second surprise of the day. There, in the flesh, was his father, FP Jones, sitting at the table doing something as mundane as reading a newspaper. His dad didn’t  _ read _ newspapers. His dad didn’t read period unless it was the label of an alcohol bottle to check for percentages.

 

“What’s the matter, boy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He pulled his reading glasses off, setting them to the side with the paper. “I got a call from Pop Tate today. You can’t leave well enough alone can you?”

 

“Not at all. Can’t say I’m too sorry about it though. Why are you home? Don’t you normally crash at Fred’s after work?”

 

“I got off early today. Nothing wrong with wanting to come actually enjoy time with my family is there? Not that you’re mother’s home. God only knows where she could be.”

 

Probably with the man who’d been blowing up her phone during family dinners, but Jughead didn’t say that. His dad, through it all, was a good guy and didn’t deserve to find out about whatever his mother was up to through his loud mouth, uncouth son.

 

“I went upstairs and saw you and JB had been digging around in the attic. Find anything interesting?”

 

“Yeah,” Jughead snorted, pulling out a fry from his Pop’s take away bag before setting the rest in front of his dad to share. “We found your 90’s yearbook. Classic, by the way. I had no idea you were into musical theatre.”

 

“We all had our things. Last I checked you wrote for the school paper.”

 

“Touché. We also found some creepy gas masks, a distirbuging doll house, a shit load of bomb shelter fliers, and some vinyl for JB. Oh, and a ouija board.”

 

FP laughed. “Oh yeah? Is that old thing still up there? Fred and I tried to call the spirit in one day, back before I moved out of here, and it was a total bust. I’m not sure why we did it other than to be stupid kids.”

 

Jughead paused, letting his father’s words slowly sink in. “Yeah? Which spirit were you trying to bring forth into our world, or whatever it’s called.”

 

“The same one everyone was trying to bring out back at our age, the spirit of the boy who died in this house back in the 50’s. Fred and I tossed that thing in the attic faster than hell after the candles started flickering and we heard some gal crying. Figured it must have been the TV or the neighbors but I haven’t touched the thing since. You probably shouldn’t either. It still makes me feel uneasy.”

 

“I have to go.”

 

He was off his feet and out of his chair in a flash, grabbing the motorcycle keys off the ring. “I’ll be back later. I forgot something at Pop’s I think.”

 

“Oh yeah? Pick your old man up a burger on the way out! I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

 

As Jughead threw on his helmet, Pop’s Chocklit Shoppe was the last thing on his mind. He needed to go find Betty and put his worst fears to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr @tory-b. I love hearing theories/thoughts/ideas as the mystery unfolds!


	5. Interview With a Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who the hell is Betty Cooper?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: **Alright I need to give a fair warning about this chapter because it has minor descriptions of violence and talks of abuse/abusive parents (both physically and emotionally). This chapter very very much earns it that mature rating. I would also like to take this moment to remind everyone of my "angst with a happy ending" tag because I promise I have good plans coming Bughead's way, just be patient with me <3****
> 
> ****I've seen a lot of theories so without further ado, we get the reveal of who the hell is Betty Cooper?** **

Betty’s instructions had been vague, but that ever sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told them she had meant them to be. He was not supposed to ever find her house. He was not supposed to grab the keys off the key ring and hop onto his dad’s motorbike, riding as quickly as he could down dreary old Elm Street in search of the crooked mailbox. He was not supposed to be as persistent, as resourceful, as downright clever as he was. He was absolutely, without a doubt, positively, not supposed to show up four houses down and see the construction workers on their lunch break, pulling apart ham sandwiches to share while one of their wives passed around cupcakes.

 

All at once, the rug was pulled out from underneath him, the wool pulled from his eyes, and he was forced to look at reality as it stood. Betty Cooper was not someone who existed, at least not as he or his sister or his mother or his father or these construction workers did. Betty Cooper did not live on Elm Street, not anymore anyway, because the place she could was no longer around.

 

He must have looked pale, because one of the men stood, curiously eying him, and said, “Hey kid, you look sick. Does your dad work here?”

 

“Maybe…” Jughead couldn’t feel the words on his tongue as his throat began to tighten. “Can I ask a question? What are you guys doing here? My family and I just moved into town.”

 

“Oh this? This used to be the old Riverdale Register. We’re tearing it down and rebuilding the house that used to be here. The mayor wants a few more properties on the market to attract people to Riverdale. Why, you looking for something?”

 

He closed his eyes impossibly tight and counted backwards from five.

 

Five.

 

_ Please don’t let it be real. _

 

Four.

 

_ Please don’t let this be how it is. _

 

Three.

 

_ Please let it all be some sick and horrible nightmare. _

 

Two.

 

_ For the love of God, please don’t let Betty Cooper be dead. _

 

One.

 

When he opened his eyes, the construction worker was still there, looking ever perplexed as he wiped the oil and grease onto his stained white tank top. The others look at him too and slowly the knots in his stomach unraveled. There was a bush a few feet away, one that he quickly emptied his Pop’s into. He had a few seconds, in between the acid burning his tongue and the curious shouts from the construction workers frantically asking if he was alright, to register that he might be crazy. That maybe Betty Cooper was a hallucination. What was worse, he wondered, having the hots for a dead girl or a stress induced fantasy?

 

But Jellybean had seen her, hadn’t she? Out in front of Pop’s it felt like his little sister knew Betty all too well, like they had spent a lot of long and lonely nights together. Loosely, he wondered if Betty and Nancy were one in the same. She  _ had _ been the one to suggest the Nancy Drew books to him at the library.

 

The library. There were so many unanswered questions rattling around in his head. Vaguely, in the distance, he heard a few of the workers ask about his parents, how far away from home he was, if they needed someone to help get him. One person wondered if he was some drunk idiot. Another kicked his knees out from under him.

 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He took a shaky breath in, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I was looking for my dad, but I think I got his site mixed up with this one. And maybe I got sick from lunch. I should go home.”

 

“You going to make it back alright in that thing?” The worker gestured to his bike.

 

Jughead nodded. Maybe a little fresh air could be of some use to him as the horrors of reality rattled dully in his brain. Everything hurt. He felt like he was splintering, like he had pulled one string too fast and the tapestry of the world was unweaving right before his very eyes.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I need to get home. I just… need to get home.”

 

He was on his bike again and driving off before anyone could stop him. For a while he just drove, feeling the warm summer air pulling at his cheeks. He stopped at Pop’s, though why, he had no idea. The old man looked surprised to see him.

 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, young man.”

 

“Yeah Pop, maybe I have.” He still felt sick. Still felt tired. Above all else, he felt confused. “Um, my dad said he’d call ahead for a chicken sandwich and he wants me to bring it to him.”

 

“Sure, Jug. Coming right now.”

 

It felt strange, to sit on his motorbike with a chicken sandwich in a crinkled white doggy bag with the Pop’s logo printed so painfully bright on it. It felt strange to walk through the front door of his house and plop the bag in front of his dad with little ceremony. Everything hurt. His head, his heart, his everything was on fire, from the tips of his toes to the tips of his knit crown. Part of him thought nothing would ever feel good again.

 

“Is JB awake yet?”

 

His voice sounded foreign, even to himself, and he felt like he was floating above the world. FP looked up at his son, squinting to suss out whatever was making Jughead’s voice so tight. But lucky for both of them, emotions was not something he had ever been particularly good at, especially if they came from his children. So all he did was unfurl the paper wrap before taking a bite.

 

“Yeah. Should be. I thought I heard her thumping around upstairs.”

 

“Thanks. We’ll be hanging out in my room. I promised I’d show her something on YouVideo.” It was a lie, but one that would keep his father as far away from his room as possible. Anything having to do with modern technology left his dead perplexed and uncomfortable. He didn’t need anything interrupting what was sure to be a confusing night.

 

On his way up, Jughead pulled out his phone, schooling through a few articles--including one WikiNow on seances that felt a little ridiculous, if not absurdly simple. He grabbed the board game from the cupboard, as well as a few of the  _ Bath and Body Place _ candles his mother had stored under the bathroom sink for her “relaxing me time” baths she took every few nights. Grimly, he hoped Betty didn’t mind piña colada, if she could smell at all.

 

He opened the door to find his sister awake, staring at the monkey that always clung tightly to make sure her hearing aids stayed in place. She didn’t look up, even when she started to talk. “Did you figure it out?”

 

“Yeah, Jelly, I did. Betty… she was your friend Nancy, right? The one you said you could hear even without your aids.”

 

“Uh huh. She told me she got really hurt a long time ago, and now she’s stuck and she can’t get out.” He realized then she was crying. His sweet little sister was crying tears for someone she didn’t know, not really, someone who had died decades ago; but someone that, to her, deserved every ounce of pity and despair she had to offer.

 

Jughead sat on the bed, listening to it groan under his weight and pulled her close to him. They sat together in pained silence until her sobs turned to shuddering breaths and air came easier to her lungs again. He ran a hand through her hair and kissed the top of her raven head.

 

“Do you want to help me make things better for her?”

 

“Yeah, Juggie, I want to make it better.”

 

They got to work quickly. He let her play with the spirit board, which was not something he ever thought he would do in his entire big brother career. But Riverdale was an enigma that shaped his life in troubling, albeit unique ways each and every day. Jughead set to work with the candles, scattering them around the room and dimming the lights. They didn’t have incense to burn, but he hoped they wouldn’t need it. Downstairs they could still make out the muffled crackle of the television, likey tuned to some food show his dad could fall asleep to and hoped this would be enough.

 

It felt silly, sitting here with his little sister, far too little to be partaking in spirit summoning activities. Until this morning, Jughead wasn’t even sure he believed in ghosts and ghouls. He spent most of his childhood purposefully stepping on cracks and walking under ladders just to upset all the people who said he was tempting fate. Maybe this was karma making a full circle to kick him properly in the ass for being a little shit all his life.

 

“Um… How do we do this?”

 

Jellybean shook her head, placing her brother’s hands on the planchet, her’s not far behind. She took a breath and asked, “Are there any spirits who want to talk?” She paused, perking up slightly after a moment. “Betty says yes.”

 

“Well, can Betty move the board like she’s supposed to? I’m sort of flying blind on this one.”

 

Before his very eyes, out from his hands, the little wooden piece was tugged, gliding across the game board in a hurry that was hard to keep up with.

 

“D-o...do you...w-a-n-t….Do you want to see me?” He stared at the board, dumbfounded. “Of course I want to see you, Betty. You think I would have gone through all the trouble of creating a fire hazard if I was going to lock myself in an insane asylum and pray for this entire thing to go away?”

 

He almost wished he hadn’t said yes. The vision that appeared was heartbreaking. Betty shimmered into existence, ripping open the very fabric of reality until she was before him, clear as day, like she always was when they crossed paths. Only now he could see it, the faint white glow around her body, the slight transparency of her limbs, the ever-present dirt on the bottom of her shoes and bobby socks. He spotted her bruises, smatterings of pale purple against her porcelain skin. They all looked so impossibly fresh. Worst of all, she was crying, clutching the planchet tightly as she let out weak sobs.

 

“I just… I just wanted to pretend. I wanted to pretend that I was normal, just for a few days, a few weeks. But I’m not normal. I’ll never be normal again because he took it away, he took it all away, Juggie. He took everything away.”

 

He wanted to reach out, to pull her close and hug her until her shaking stopped and she could breathe again. But then again, Betty couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t touch her, because if he tried, his hands would ghost right through her.

 

“Where do you want to start?” His voice didn’t even sound like his, catching the air and being twisted into something unrecognizable. For a minute, he thought it sounded sad, hopeless, distraught. Like the world had just collapsed from underneath him. Maybe it had. “Maybe explaining what the hell you are?”

 

Betty winced, wiping the crystalline tears from her skin. “I um… I don’t know the answer to that. I think I’m a ghost, I should be a ghost anyway, but sometimes I feel almost real, like I’m caught in between realities. Some days if I hold my hand up to the sun it doesn’t completely peak through my skin, other days I’m clear and not a single person can see me. I think I died. At least, I should have.”

 

“And what killed you?”

 

The answer that came was the one he expected and it still left a bitter taste on his tongue. “My dad, Hal Cooper. He killed my older brother Chic, too, and then he killed himself. My sister, Polly, and my mom, Alice, they got away. Polly moved to Connecticut to a place called The Farm, but I don’t know what happened to Mom. None of the papers said and I wasn’t… I wasn’t there when it happened. I just know it did because I can feel it.”

 

“What do you mean you weren’t here when it happened? I heard that you died,” God it felt so wrong to say, “before your brother did. Wouldn’t you still be in the house when it happened?”

 

Betty shook her head. “No. I wasn’t around. I remember the night it happened… everything went black. I felt cold and it was like I was asleep for a long time, and by the time I woke up everything was different. Someone else lived here, your dad, Juggie, and his dad, too. But he looked a lot different, younger, kind of like you do now. And he was with his friend! Freddy Andrews.

 

“It felt cold and then suddenly it didn’t. Suddenly I was sitting in this room in front of this board and there were two boys whispering something. They couldn’t see me though, no matter how much I screamed and begged. I got so mad I kicked at a candle. The second it fell down, they threw the board upstairs and ran out to Pop’s. At first, I couldn’t really leave here. Maybe I didn’t want to, maybe I was too scared. But eventually, I could go farther. And farther. Little by little. Most people still couldn’t see me, but I think your dad could hear me sometimes. Sometimes Terry Tate can, too. Oh, he got so big and grown up and runs the diner all on his own. I used to babysit him you know, when Mom and Dad would let me out of the house because I was feeling better.”

 

Jellybean’s voice was quiet when she said, “But you didn’t feel bad.” It wasn’t a question, and for the first time, Jughead thought there might be something special about his sister. Not special in the way he said it when she first presented him with her surprisingly well-crafted macaroni art of the sunrise, but special in a more supernatural sense. He shivered, remembering all the times her imaginary friends had come to join them for tea parties in Toledo. He wondered how many of them were dead.

 

“No. No, I didn’t. I felt sad. Lonely. But Daddy said I had to stay up in the attic until I got better, because some days I was sick. Sick in the head. The doctors didn’t like the word hysteria anymore, but that’s what he called it anyway. But he was always… he always thought the worst. When the news started talking atom bombs and fallout shelters, he was the first in line to collect the pamphlets. He always bought more food, more water, more everything than we needed, even though it drove Mom bonkers, because he said it would be important for when the bombs finally dropped.

 

“He made me that dollhouse, the one you found, to keep me company when he locked the attic door. Sometimes they would forget about me to teach me a lesson.” She was crying again, body shaking with little sobs. “I don’t know what they were supposed to be teaching me. I wasn’t allowed to eat and if I drank the water for the fallout, he’d yell so loud my eardrums rang. But then he’d be sweet again and braid my hair for me before bedtime. Sometimes Polly or Chic would sneak up to say hi and make sure I was okay. Chic and Daddy always fought about it. I could hear them downstairs, how Chic said he was going to steal me one night and take me away to keep me safe.”

 

“You lived up there? The house was yours? But it said PEC.”

 

“Property of Elizabeth Cooper,” she gave him a shaky smile. “I um… the reason all the articles don’t have names, I’m sorry Juggie that was my fault. You’re so smart I thought you’d figure it out the second you saw the name Cooper, so I sort of… I hid them from you by making it so you couldn’t read the names. That wasn’t fair… none of this was fair but I was so happy pretending it was normal. I got to sit with you in front of that big television and watch movies and it felt like I wasn’t dead. It felt like all the things I never got to do.”

 

Jughead reached out again, unable to stop himself as his hand ghosted through hers. It felt like when he touched fog, thick and pliant, separating the air and then piecing back together in an instant. He doubted it was comforting at all. “God, Betts, I’m so sorry. Do you… do you remember the night you died?”

 

For a minute, she stared down at her hands, as if trying to memorize the lines in her skin, the little chips in the pink nail polish he hadn’t noticed on her before. Had her sister painted that for her the night of her death? Every time she looked at them, was she reminded of all the people she had lost? She gave a short, nervous nod. “Yes. I do.”

 

He looked towards his little sister, sitting comfortably on the rug and fiddling with the monkey on her chest. She looked young, sweet, filled with innocence and joy and he was reminded of the fact that Jellybean wasn’t even out of elementary school yet. Maybe the retelling of a grizzly filicide was not the bedtime story she needed.

 

“Hey, Jelly, could you run downstairs and get me some water?” It was a bare bones lie, and even her vague expression told him she wasn’t believing it for a second, but it was enough to get her to stand and head outside of the room. The door closed with a thud. “Betty, will you tell me how you died?”

 

“I will. It’s not a pretty story, Jughead. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

 

“Honestly? I’m not sure of a lot of things. I’m not sure ghosts are real, even though you’re looking right at me, literally haunting my house. I’m not sure Riverdale isn’t some fever dream hallucination I’m having back in Toledo because I got food poisoning from the Curdle Curry down the street. I’m not sure which way is up, what day tomorrow is, or how in the hell anyone still lives here. What I do know, without a doubt, is that for my own sanity, I need to figure out what the hell is going on here; and that starts with your story, no matter how bitter and morbid and terrifying it may be. I need to hear it. But are you sure you can tell it?”

 

“It’s like a ghost story around a fire, right?” Her laugh wasn’t the light, airy one that always made him shiver and his toes curls. She was sad and finally, Jughead understood why. “Okay. I’ll start somewhere I guess. It was the night of the Sock Hop at Riverdale High. I’d never been able to go to school there because my parents said it wasn’t good for my health, but a friend of mine invited me out and I was so excited. I had been feeling better, or what I thought was better, so I asked my parents if I could go. Mom said yes, and Dad… he didn’t take well to that. He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me right back up to the attic. He told me to play with my dolls and learn to be a good girl.

 

“I was so upset. I was wearing my favorite pink dress with white polka dots and brand new socks Polly had gotten me. She’d curled my hair and everything. I felt so special and I was so excited to get to spend the night dancing with everyone. Archibald Andrews, the first one, your friend's grandpa was supposed to be there and I had the biggest crush on him. He’d always give me the cherry off his milkshake when Daddy wasn’t looking if I ran into him at Pop’s. And I knew he was going to be there so I...I did something stupid. I climbed out the window of the attic.”

 

There was a strange twist in the pit of his stomach, one that left him with uncomfortable butterflies and a bitter taste. He was jealous. Jealous of a person who was either dead or very old at this point, because he had the hots for a ghost girl from the 1950’s. When he had moved from Toledo, his parents had promised him everything would still be normal. This, this did not feel normal.

 

“Keep going. I’m right here. I know it’s not easy but you can do this. Maybe it’ll be good to finally let it out after all these years.”

 

She nodded, choking back a sob. “I was coming home after a wonderful night. Everything felt perfect and Archibald had kissed me right on the cheek in front of all of Riverdale High. When I got back, I saw Daddy on the front porch and oh I knew he was madder than hell. He was shaking and red and I thought ‘I’m in for it now’. I thought he was going to do what he always did when I disobeyed, that I’d end up locked in the attic praying to god and writing lines until my fingers cramped and it hurt my hands. But it wasn’t like that. He was so… Juggie, he was so angry he grabbed me and started to shake me so hard my head hurt.

 

“I told him to stop. I screamed and tried to run but then he grabbed me again, this time on my neck and I couldn’t breath. I couldn’t breath and every time I tried to it didn’t work. I kicked and wiggled and tried, I tried so hard to get away. I kept wondering why no one was coming outside, why no one was going to help me, and then everything started to go black. He let me go and I fell. I think I hit my head on a rock because it got warm and wet.

 

“I heard him start to cry. I don’t remember everything but he just said he’d make it better. That he’d ‘fix this mistake’ and ‘keep me safe until it was time’. But then I must have died, because it went black and it stayed black until your dad and Freddy pulled out the board and started talking to me.”

 

The tension was tight in the air, even as she started to shake again, letting the emotions tumble out of her as quickly as the words had. Betty had not before been allowed to grieve for herself, the loss of everything she had, everything she could have been, everything that would never be. She cried and cried until her tears petered out into hiccups and her impossibly green eyes were staring at him with something he might dare to call home.

 

Jughead, for his part, was not holding up well either. He was crying too, for a lot of different reasons, though none of them made much sense if he tried to put them in order. He cried for her, of course. But then he cried for them. And then he cried for Riverdale, the corrupt little town on the edge of the river that never dared to look down and see how dark their roots had become, how shriveled and gnarled they grew with each passing day.

 

“Jesus Christ, Betty, I am so… I’m so sorry. I don’t think there’s anything else I can say other than sorry, and it doesn’t even feel right. I wish… I wish I could reach out and hug you. God, I really want to hug you. What happened with your dad, it’s terrible. It’s horrible. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard and you never got any closure. No one knows what happened to you. Maybe that’s why you’re still stuck. Maybe you can’t go because you don’t know where you are. No one knows where you are. They just figured you either ran away or disappeared. What if we found you? Maybe then you wouldn’t be so stuck.”

 

“I had never thought about leaving. I just figured I would be here for the rest of forever, watching as Riverdale changed with each decade. That maybe I’d find a couple more people like you and be a little less lonely, even for a minute. But you really think you can help me?”

 

“I mean it’s going to be a lot of research,” he conceded with a grimace. “And you can’t go meddling with my eyesight again. But I think it’s worth a shot. I’ve got another month of summer left and I think finding a pretty girl a good resting place is as noble an endeavour as any.”

 

Betty giggled and wiped the last of the tears from her eyes. “You might be the sweetest guy I’ve ever met Jughead Jones.”

 

“I’ll take the compliment, even though it’s been awhile since you’ve met really anyone.”

 

“I’m counting my human days, too. But I didn’t meet many people then either. Even so, you’re like my very own Prince Charming.”

 

They had gotten closer and if this were anyone else, in any number of situations, Jughead might have dared to lean forward and close the short distance between their lips. He wanted to kiss Betty. There weren’t many girls he had wanted to kiss before, but she was at the very top of his list, corporeal or not.

 

“You should try.” Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “To kiss me, I mean. If you want to. I never… I never got to be kissed and I think I wouldn’t mind if the first one was from you.”

 

Kissing Betty, or maybe kissing any ghost, felt a lot like kissing water. There was tension he couldn't quite break through, like her existence was pulled tight, much tighter than his or Jellybean’s, or anyone else with a beating heart. It was like a string that might finally snap at any moment. But it wasn’t bad. It felt feather light and impossibly soft, like a butterfly landing on  his lips. And then it was gone, Betty’s form fluttering out of existence for a moment, long enough to send him falling forward. He caught himself with an outstretched hand and heard her giggle from behind him.

 

She was perched on his little sister’s bed, wearing the pink polka dot dress she had described to him. There were still tear streaks along her cheeks, but she seemed brighter. “Sorry. I think I got too excited and I popped. Sometimes I just do that. I’ll be sitting somewhere and then the next second I’m somewhere else entirely because I thought too hard. Or maybe I didn’t think enough because I got distracted.”

 

“Oh yeah?” he was grinning like a fool. “What could have distracted you?”

 

The door opened and an exacerbated--he didn’t think ten year olds could look exacerbated--Jellybean stood in the entryway with two glasses of water. She outstretched her hand to give him one. “Juggie, if you’re going to make moves on my ghost friend, can you do it outside of my room?”

 

“Oh. I should probably go… somewhere. At night I like to sit by Sweetwater and look at the sky. Or sometimes I’ll sit in the darkness and pretend I’m sleeping, too.”

 

“Or you could stay?” It was out of his mouth before he could even think. “You could come lay with me in my room, if you want to. We can just talk.”

 

“Talk? Yeah. Yes, I think I would like that.”

 

They laid in his bed that night, Jughead curled under his plaid sheets, Betty floating just above like she always did, somehow there enough to touch his things but not enough for him to reach out and tuck the loose strand of hair behind her ear like he wanted to. He talked about Toledo, about the place he’d come from before and all the things he’d seen on his way to Riverdale. She had never stepped foot outside this sleepy town, had never even dared to for fear crossing city lines would pop her out of the world again, and she likely never would. He made sure the descriptions of each place were impossibly vivid.

 

The murder mystery could wait until the morning. He wouldn’t be productive right now anyway, not when so much was still rattling around in his head. Part of him thought the second his eyes were shut, he would open them and wake up back on the pull out couch in his grandparents’ basement, no hat on his head, no ghost in his bed.

 

_ A ghost was in his bed. _ That was something that might take some time to get used to. He wondered how many ghosts in the world there were and asked if Betty had ever met any of them.

 

She frowned, shaking her head. “No. I never did. I thought maybe one day I’d find someone I knew. Riverdale’s so small but it seems like everyone else just gets to move on. Not me.”

 

“Not yet. I promise you, Betty, we’ll figure out a way to get you wherever you need to be.”

 

Her smile was enough to sink ships, to sent his heart into a frenzy, to send his whole body into overdrive. She leaned across the way and placed a gentle kiss on his nose. A chill traveled down his spine, right to the bottom of his toes. It should have felt cold, but an impossible warmth burst from his chest. 

 

“You should go to sleep, Juggie.”

 

“Will you be here in the morning?”

 

“I don’t know. I never know where I’ll end up, but I can promise you that you’ll find me again tomorrow, somewhere. Is that enough?”

 

Jughead nodded, letting sleep finally overcome him. “It’s enough for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....what did we think? We got a soft little bughead smooch as well as some plot unfurling. I hope you all enjoyed! Follow me on tumblr @tory-b


	6. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little sleuthing leads to a startling discovery that might put a hitch in Mission Get Betty's Body Back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little sweeter, though just as plot pivotal for things. @bugggghead's comments were frequently along the lines of "aawww" and "aahhhh" as she was beta-ing if that's any indication! I hope you all enjoy. Only two chapters left on this crazy ride and I'm really grateful you've all been along with it for me.

In all the ways Jughead had imagined this summer would go, cuddled up on a sofa with the ghost girl he was kind of maybe dating--if you could date someone without a body or a heart or really anything corporal--hunched over a list of old Riverdale directories to figure out a little bit more about Hal Cooper, was not one of them. He had imagined bitterly hanging out at the lake with the one friend he had managed to make. Maybe, occasionally, him and Jellybean would venture to leave the house and go to the drive-in movie theatre he had stumbled upon during his many hours spent googling Riverdale. But this was neither of those things. It was better. It was worse.

 

It was complicated.

 

Most things in his life were complicated these days. His little sister was probably some type of ghost medium who could hear them even without her aids. His father and his friend’s father (because he and Archie were friends now, apparently) had inadvertently summoned the ghost that was now his girlfriend from her resting place in what he suspected to be purgatory. And he was at the center of the mystery, trying to figure out where Betty’s body was resting so he could send her off into heaven or wherever the hell ghosts went when they finally found peace. You know, like every normal teenage couple would want to do.

 

Jughead groaned, smacking his head against the warm embrace of the sofa, hoping, perhaps irrationally, that it would swallow him whole and he could stop learning about the wickedness in the town he was going to have to spend at least another two years pretending to be normal in. 

 

Riverdale was fucked. Utterly, painfully, ironically fucked. Small town America was not the vision he had always imagined. Sure it was just as disconcerting as a Stepford town should be, but filled with much more murder, chaos, and confusion than it had any right to be.

 

“You really can’t think of anywhere that your dad used to hang out? Somewhere he might have stored a body?”

 

_ A _ body. Not  _ your  _ body. It was impossible to squeak out those words, no matter how many times he had tried these last few days. Admitting that Betty was a ghost was one thing, but admitting that her body was somewhere, likely skeletal, was another and not something he particularly wanted to face until absolutely necessary.

 

They had yet to discuss what exactly they were going to do once they unearthed whatever remains of hers were left. He’d had nightmares, digging up unnamed graves to find her half rotted, that pretty little circle skirt the only indication that this was the girl with which he’d been practicing kissing at every chance. (They were going to figure out a good way to do it if it killed him. Just one kiss from Betty Cooper and he could let her go with a smile. Maybe. Probably not. But he could at least trick himself into thinking it was going to be okay if he could lay awake every night imagining the gentle press of her lips against his.)

 

Betty shook her head. “No. We, you, this house doesn’t have a basement and we would all know by now if the attic was where he put me.”

 

“Well let’s start at the beginning again. I know your dad owned the Register because it was one of the few pieces of actual information this town kept in its records. Seriously, I’m surprised they’re not all just pieces of paper with dicks drawn on them just to mock me.”

 

She blushed at his crudeness and Jughead was reminded that she was not from his time, where a swear word was something that came out after every syllable and people did a lot more than necking in the back seats of cars. It was cute. Even if her cheeks never got more than a slight tinge of pink now that he could see past her ghostly glamor. Everything about her was utterly endearing and he was not someone to get endeared to people. There was Archie--who couldn’t love that idiot puppy--and his little sister. And now, there was Betty.

 

“Yeah, he owned it. He used to go there all the time because he worked at the Register. My daddy wanted to be a doctor, or a scientist because everyone in his family was, but he wasn’t smart enough. Everyone just told him to go do journalism since he was good at it. I think he always regretted having to work there so I can’t imagine he’d want to spend any more time there than necessary.”

 

“Maybe. Or maybe not. I think exploring it might be worth something, if nothing else. Because that way we know for sure. The only problem is, it’s a hazardous construction zone currently and they’ve been ripping it apart. I feel like if there was a body to be found there, a construction worker would have found it and the single therapist in town would have spread that news like fucking wildfire. It would be the headline of every news article in the entire town.”

 

“Juggie, there’s only one newspaper in the entire town.”

 

He waved her off with a smile. “Get your details and facts away from me right now, Cooper. I’m doing you a favor remember?”

 

“I’m sure. And you’ve got no interest in trying to tease out the mystery for yourself?” Who was the one doing the teasing when she let her voice be as saccharine as that? He felt his heart flutter, and suddenly it was hard to focus on anything but her.

 

“Juggie, you’re staring.”

 

“Sometimes, when I see pretty things, I do that.”

 

And she was blushing again, that faint little glow that was impossibly cute. In moments like this, he would try to pretend that the world was normal and things were not flipped right on their head. He was standing with his two feet on the ground and Betty was actually his girlfriend. They met at school, like normal people, and they had been partnered up in lab together to do a frog dissection or something equally as macabre. Betty had been too sad to do it, claiming the poor frog didn’t have a chance, so he would finish the project on his own and give all the credit to her if she agreed to let him take her to Pop’s.

 

They would spend the entire night there, tucked in the booth, talking about everything under the stars. Their favorite books. Their favorite movies. Their favorite spooky stories. He would talk about Jellybean, who could not hear ghosts and was instead a normal ten-year-old girl with a few friends and a few bullies he’d like to drop kick into next Sunday. And she would talk about her siblings, overprotective but caring Chic and messy but lovable Polly. Their parents were still dysfunctional, maybe FP was still an alcoholic, but her life had not been cut short by a fit of rage and there were not bruises ingrained into the very fabric of her reality--marks forever on her wrists and neck.

 

He would walk her home because the bike was too much and FP would’ve said it wasn’t date material. She would say goodnight but they would linger in the doorway until he spotted Polly flicking the lights off and on--a reminder that they needed to be done now. But he would lean in and kiss her as softly and sweetly as he could and she would kiss him back and whisper, ‘see you tomorrow, Juggie,’ before slipping inside the door. And he would see her again. He would see her a million more time after that, no fear that she might suddenly disappear from him.

 

Sometimes he would indulge in the fantasies and wish beyond reason that they would be real.

 

“You’re too sweet to me.”

 

“You deserve a little sweetness after everything that’s happened to you. So let me stay sweet, okay? Just until I have to say goodbye.”

 

Her voice was quiet, like she half hoped he wouldn’t hear her whisper, “I wish we didn’t have to at all.”

 

“I wish we didn’t, either.”

 

Jughead leaned across the couch to press a kiss against her lips, or at least their version of a kiss, the ghost kind that involved a lot of shaking from chills and the brush of her breath against his skin. It still felt like touching water, no matter how hard they practiced, and if he wasn’t careful, he might fall right through her. It had happened once. A few days before, she had been sitting on his bed, helping him figure out a lie to tell his mom as to why he needed to spend the day in bed instead of going to Greendale with her, and he had been so overcome by her beauty that he had launched himself across the springs and straight through her. Jughead was sure he looked like a confused Looney Toon character, but the giggles he got from Betty were worth their weight in gold.

 

“Ew. I thought I would never have to worry about walking in on Jughead kissing a girl, but you would find a way to do it even if your girlfriend is dead.”

 

He rolled his eyes, picking up the pillow and tossing it in the direction of his sister’s spying eyes without even looking. She yelped and tossed it back. Even though it hit the back of his head, he still felt satisfied with the exchange, and even more satisfied in grossing her out. “Don’t be jealous.”

 

“I’m not jealous, I’m ten. Kissing is gross and I’d rather chew rocks than do it.”

 

Betty blinked. “Don’t do that, it’s bad for your teeth, Jelly. And you’ve got such pretty teeth, especially when you smile.”

 

“How are you so painfully nice with everyone?” Jughead asked, shaking his head. “It’s a talent. A superpower.”

 

“It’s how I was raised,” she corrected him without a trace of bitterness. He certainly would have been bitter about it, all the abuse. He was bitter now and the most he’d encountered was an alcoholic father and a few late-night arguments between his parents. There was the poverty, too, but that was semantics. Neither of his parents were murderers, and he knew without a doubt they both loved him, no matter how complex everything else got. “What are you doing down here? Did you need something? Is it almost lunch?”

 

Sweet and doting on his sister; this girl was perfection wrapped in one sweet, unobtainable package. Leave it to Jughead Jones to finally find a girl he liked and have it be the only one he would never be able to have. That signature Jones luck was having a field day in his personal life as of late.

 

“No, I’m okay. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

“That’s sweet of you, Jelly, but I’m perfectly fine. Just some things we’ve been talking about are a little hard sometimes. But you’re a sweet girl to worry. You’re like a pumpkin pie and those are my favorite.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Jughead beamed, pulling his sister down so he could rain a flurry of tickles against her sides, getting her to scream and yell and wiggle until she was howling with laughter. “I think she’s key lime, bitter and tart.”

 

“Key lime is your favorite!” the ten-year-old in his grasp shouted, kicking her legs as hard as she could.

 

“I never said it wasn’t, did I? Be gone now demon, I dispel you!”

 

She landed on the bean bag with a small ‘oof’, still giggling and wiggling with happiness. Her eyes were bright and her raven locks were a mess when she looked up at the two of them and beamed. “That’s not how you get rid of a demon.”

 

“Oh? And how do you know? Been completing exorcisms when I’ve been away? I always knew my sister was something else. Guess that means we can ship you off to the nunnery and all my biggest fears are put to rest.”

 

“You’re stupid.”

 

“Yeah, probably.”

 

Jughead let his eyes wander to Betty, who was sitting there enraptured by their exchange. Every time they spoke, her eyes lit up with something he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was sadness.  Maybe she was forlorn. And then, he could see it, little flints hitting sparks of jealousy. 

 

She had an older brother. His name had been Chic and he’d died as tragically as her, in his bed at night with his father standing above him with a butcher’s knife. Late one night she had cried to him for an hour, explaining how much she missed her brother, what she wouldn’t give to pull him into a tight hug and promise him she never meant to leave. She said he’d told her to pack a bag and run away with him a few nights before the dance. She’d thought it was a joke until she saw the car all packed up tight. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave. No matter how wicked her parents were, she couldn’t leave them.

 

Apparently, would haves, should haves, and could haves haunted even the creatures that went bump in the night. It was humbling, if not a little sad to know the same things in life would scare him in death.

 

“You’re sweet with her,” she whispered, leaning close.

 

Jughead smiled. “Don’t tell her, but it’s because she’s my favorite.”

 

“I heard that!” Jellybean squealed in delight, crawling back into his lap and hugging him tightly. “You’re my favorite too, Juggie, but Betty’s a close second.”

 

“You know, I think I can handle that. Betty’s pretty amazing, she deserves to be high up on that list for just about everyone, but especially us. She was keeping you and me company way before we knew what was happening. I can’t thank you enough for that, either. I’m sure you helped things go smoother for JB than anyone else. She was scared about moving.”

 

“Was not,” the little girl protested into his shirt collar, but it was half-hearted at best.

 

Betty shook her head. “No trouble at all. I just… wanted to see someone smile for me. I didn’t mind pretending to be your imaginary friend. Even though I don’t think you ever thought of me like that.”

 

“I didn’t. I don’t have imaginary friends because I can have real ones. Just because they aren’t alive doesn’t mean they aren’t real.”

 

“I am going to spare myself a lot of trauma and pain and not ask how many dead friends you have on speed dial, and instead tell you to go back upstairs. We’re talking scary grown-up stuff.”

 

“You want to go to the Register to see if you can find Betty’s dead body?”

 

Jughead groaned. “Jesus, kid. Why is our family so fuc-messed up?”

 

“You were going to say fuck.”

 

“You just  _ did  _ say fuck, so unless you want to give me a quarter, we’ll call it fair and square.”

 

“I want to help you put Betty to rest. She’s my friend, too, and I want to help her be happy like she helped me be happy when we first moved to Riverdale, Juggie.  _ Please  _ let me help.”

 

Yes, there were a lot of ways he imagined his summer going, but having his little sister sit in his lap and ask to help him dig up the skeletal remains of her friend, his girlfriend, might have been the most troubling of them all. It didn’t feel right to say yes, but it didn’t feel right to say no. He was in a moral conundrum fit for the ages. Jellybean had already seen a lot, more than probably even he had, but it was his job to love and protect her. Did exposing her to that, even on a theoretical level, really fit in line with his morality? Then again, what, anymore, did?

 

He looked to Betty for an answer, hoping she might be of some assistance in explaining to a child why this was not something she would want to be privy to. Their eyes met for a moment before she looked back down at his little sister and melted. Yeah, that was usually his reaction, too.

 

“Do you promise to be careful?”

 

“There aren’t any bad ghosts that I can feel at all, I promise.”

 

“That didn’t answer my questions, Jelly.” Betty reached out and ghosted her hand over his sister’s, silent reassurance that they were there and she was grateful for all her help. “Do you promise to be careful? If your brother says enough, it means enough. If one of us says go home, you have to go home. You have to listen and be smart or you could end up getting really hurt and no one wants that, okay?”

 

She nodded, smiling up at her with her crooked too big teeth. “I promise, I’ll be good and on my best behavior. I promise I’ll be careful. And I promise that I’m going to listen. I just don’t want you going alone. I might be sad if something happens and I’m not there for you.”

 

It was then Jughead realized she was worried, worried about Betty, sure, but mostly she was worried about him. Apparently, it had become painfully obvious how attached he was to his ghost girlfriend, even to his little sister who liked to stay firmly far outside the realm of what she called ‘adult business’. Part of him found that terrifying. But then the other part, the part that liked Betty so much that sometimes he forgot to breathe, thought it was sweet.

 

“We’ll be fine. Thanks for always caring though, JB.” He kissed her forehead once before pulling her into the crook of his arm so he could lay out his thoughts. “So, here’s what I’ve got planned. JB and I can’t leave the house until mom and dad are asleep. With dad, he’s usually out by nine from the alcohol and the work, but sometimes mom stays up curling her hair or making a fuss just to annoy dad into waking up and coming to bed. I’m thinking, hoping mostly, that around eleven, hopefully earlier, we’ll be good to go. Construction will have completely cleared out by then, so we can take a look around the former Riverdale Register without too many prying eyes. You don’t think the site has security, do you?”

 

Betty cocked an eyebrow at him. “I may have been alive in the 50’s, but I don’t think Riverdale would be willing to spend extra money on something like that - even now. No one cares if kids are playing at the construction site as long as there are signs posted everywhere warning them to be safe.”

 

“Fair enough. How does the plan sound, JB? Think you can stay up long enough? If I go up and you’re dead to the world,” he winced. “Sorry, bad phrasing. If you’re asleep, then I’m not going to wake you up, alright?”

 

“Okay,  _ Forsythe _ , you don’t have to nag me.”

 

“Watch your mouth,  _ Forsythia, _ before I make you clean it out with soap.”

 

“I didn’t even swear!”

 

“I could tell you wanted to!”

 

As with all things in their house, their argument deteriorated quickly into teasing and laughter, with Betty watching from the sidelines, occasionally interrupting to add a quip that left Jughead shocked and Jellybean giggling with delight. Each little thing he learned about was just one more positively delightful memory he would keep in a jar for when he didn’t have her anymore.

 

When his parents came home, dinner was tense like it always was, an awkward series of noncommittal grunts and hidden jabs at each other. At least until Jellybean and Jughead got into an all-out fry fight, ending with them both being sent to bed early. Betty was long since gone, wandering whatever haunt she frequented when she couldn’t be around the Jones household. He took the time to write.

 

It didn’t start off as anything important. More than anything, he just needed a way to get all his thoughts out on paper. It helped that he had something to write about--or rather, someone, who was something, but also not quite. He filled pages and pages with thoughts of Betty Cooper, little memories he would cling to tightly in the aftermath of whatever it was that was going to happen. This would be his prize. His happiness. Above all, it would be a reminder he had not gone clinically insane for a brief period of time right before his junior year of high school. Or maybe he would look back on it as an adult and wonder how he got so imaginative. For now, he would hope it would be a relic of something good. Something sweet. Something that felt a lot like your first love.

 

He was half hoping Jellybean would be asleep when he went to retrieve her, but she was feisty and filled with Jones determination so there was no such luck. When they escaped out the front door, Betty was waiting there, shining so beautifully in the moonlight that he thought she was ethereal. Maybe she was an angel and simply didn’t know it yet. Maybe she could stay and watch over him like a guardian. Not being able to touch her would be worth it, even just to have her company for the rest of his days until she picked up his soul and carried him to heaven.

 

More silly fantasies, too many to count. Anything to push away the inevitability of being Betty-less for eternity. The loss of her soul from earth would mark a sad day for everyone.

 

“Are we ready?”

 

Jellybean nodded, hands stuffed in the pockets of her favorite fuzzy coat. She had insisted upon it, as well as her bunny slippers currently tucked into Jughead’s backpack. It seemed, for a moment, like she might reach out and try and take Betty’s hand, but then she thought better of it and stepped away, lacing her fingers through his instead.

 

The walk towards the remnants of the Register was eerily quiet, with nothing but the light from the moon and the lazy trill of summertime cicadas to keep them company. Occasionally, Betty would let her hand brush through his. It was a reminder that she was there, at least for now. Every lingering touch made him smile. At least it was something. Maybe they could practice kissing a little more tonight. That was, if it wasn’t their last night.

 

It occurred to him that, if all went well--and it likely wouldn’t as this was Riverdale, he was a Jones, and she was a Cooper, two families with impossibly bad luck in a town out to get them--he might never see her again. It left a bitter taste in the back of his throat. It would be selfish of him to admit he wanted her to stay. Tonight, he felt very selfish. How he kept it on his tongue was an exercise in both willpower and patience.

 

“This place is spooky at night.”

 

Betty smiled at his sister, sweet and gentle. “And what do you think is going to go bump in the night? I think the only thing that does that around here is me, so you can bet that you’re safe.”

 

“I just always feel bad around places where the spirit energy is high. It’s high here. Like… I can feel you on everything. In everything. Like you’re tethered to something.”

 

Jughead whistled. “Remind me to always bring the ten-year-old ghost book with me for all future spooky cases.”

 

“Are you telling me you’re planning on seeing other ghosts?” Betty teased.

 

“Oh definitely. Apparently, that’s my thing now. I’m thinking of opening up a little shop out of the attic called Jones’ Spiritual Detective Agency. It’ll only give my parents three heart attacks collectively.”

 

Things certainly felt like a horror movie as a young girl, a young boy, and a ghost walked through a construction zone in the middle of the night. All they were missing was a puppy to wail and yelp. Jughead almost felt bad for leaving Hot Dog at home away from all the fun.

 

He could make out the general shape of all the equipment, but he couldn’t call any of it by name. For someone whose father worked in construction, he was absolute garbage at this. It didn’t help that they had no idea what it was they were looking for. The best they could do was go off of whatever his little sister was feeling, pointing in certain directions because it felt stronger or lighter or darker. It was like a complicated game of Marco Polo with spirit energy.

 

Spirit energy. God, fifteen-year-old Jughead was weeping back in Toledo at the very thought of going ghost hunting with his sister and a  _ real-life, living, breathing ghost.  _ Well not half of those things, but a real ghost at least. Every few minutes he would have to pinch his skin as a reminder that this was not in some strange wet dream to help him discover a new him. This was his life. His very real, very spooky life. He sighed audibly and knocked it away, pretending to stifle a yawn so no one would be any wiser.

 

Suddenly, without warning, Jellybean stilled and her eyes went blank, glassy. She pointed forward and whispered, “There.”

 

“Where is there?”

 

All he could see before him was empty space, what looked like the remnants of a wall crumbled to the ground thanks to the heavy beat of a sledgehammer. He looked to Bety for clarification, but if his sister seemed startled, she was downright spooked. Her eyes were wide like saucers, staring at the empty space as if at any moment it would come alive and wrap around her in a tight embrace. He couldn't tell if it was one she wanted or not.

 

Betty took a shaky step forward. One. Two. And then she sprinted towards the area. She reached out to move the rocks, and before he could remind her that it was impossible, she was a ghost who could only bring things into the world to play with, like the stick she drug across the ground on their first meeting, he watched the impossible happen. He swore he saw her flicker. It was the flicker of a TV set out of tune, but brighter, white light momentarily engulfing her and he watched her pale skin flash with pink. She looked so real. So human. And then, just like it had come, it was gone. Had it not been for the way Jellybean’s hand tightened around his, he would have thought it another flash of fantasy.

 

“Did you…?” he didn’t dare finish the sentence.

 

She nodded. “Yeah.”

 

“What does it mean?”

 

“I… don’t know. I can only feel it. I don’t know how to say it.”

 

Betty turned to them, eyes frantic and pleading. “I can feel something here. Please. Please help. Please,  _ I can feel it _ . I don’t know what it is, but I know that… I’m somewhere. I’m close.”

 

Without thinking, he ran to her, pushing the rocks away as best he could. It was a difficult task, especially with Jellybean taking this moment to live out her dream as a construction dictator. Once enough of the debris was gone, the truth was revealed. At least, ever so slightly. Beneath it all was a large, round disk. Had he not known any better, it might have looked like a sewer grate. Maybe that’s what the construction workers saw, what kept them from curiously trying to pry it open with force and power tools. 

 

There was a latch near the top, held together by a strong chain and lock. It wasn’t something that bolt cutters would work for when a series of even more confusing buttons and twists were waiting underneath. Whatever this was, it looked like a puzzle.

 

“A bunker,” Betty breathed.

 

And then it clicked.

 

“Betty, you said your dad was always preparing for the end of the world, right? For the nuclear fallout? What if… would it be possible he built a bunker under the Register? Would it be possible that maybe that’s where he put you?”

 

“Oh, God. Oh my God. We’re so close! We’re so close but we can’t… We can’t get in. Not yet. We need to figure out where the key is, how else he might have locked it but… but I’m there. I can feel it. I can feel me, Juggie.” She looked relieved and terrified all at once. “What if you see me and you hate me? I’ll be a corpse. A skeleton. Not a pretty, young ghost.”

 

“It’s you. I can’t lie and say it probably won’t be one of the most troubling moments of my life and I might need a lot of therapy to cope afterward, so no JB, you can’t come whenever we decide to go, but I think it’ll be worth it. Because I’ll get to help you figure out wherever you need to go. Wherever you need to be free. However I can.”

 

The smile she gave him was made of gold. Without thinking, she leapt forward, throwing her arms around him and pressing a kiss to his lips.

 

A kiss.

 

She had just kissed him.

 

Her lips felt like honey, soft and sweet and slow against his. Jughead had never kissed a girl before, so there was nothing to compare this to, but it simply wasn’t the liquidy awkwardness it had been before. There was something solid here, wrapped around his shoulders and firm against him. He swore their teeth even clicked together in a bit of fumbling.

 

It happened again, the fuzz of her body, the flicker of reality warping her in ways he couldn’t understand, and she fell through him just as easily as she had held him, fumbling forward. “Juggie, what… what’s happening?”

 

The flickering was more frequent now, the same way it got right before she disappeared. His mind was racing. Rattling. He echoed the question with his own thoughts.  _ What in the actual fuck is happening?  _

 

“You kissed me,” was all he could say, dumbly, confused, and full of something that might resemble the gentle flicker of hope. “Betty, you kissed me and I felt it.”

 

She opened her mouth to speak, and then she was gone. Reality shifted in ways that always made his stomach felt tight. Where she should have been, she was not--just empty air with nothing to fill the void. Jellybean was standing there looking as dumbfounded and shell-shocked as he felt.

 

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” she finally asked, voice quiet.

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if any of us will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take this moment to inform everyone that I will not be traumatizing Jughead with finding Betty's corpse, but you'll have to wait and see how I wiggle around that one!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [tory-b](http://tory-b.tumblr.com)


	7. First and Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In search of a single scrap of normalcy, Jughead takes Betty out on their first (and potentially last) date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy oh gosh I cannot believe we're THIS close to the end. Thank you to all the wonderful stunning amazing people who have kept up with this fic. it means the absolute world to me! Just one more chapter. This one contains an obscene amount of tooth rotting fluff as well as a healthy serving of angst so I hope you brought your appetites!

It had been almost a month since Betty disappeared. The consistent summer heat--if you could call anything weather related in Riverdale consistent--had slowly been dissipating. The humidity still clung to his clothes, soaking through to his skin and making the cotton cling to the back of his neck, but the breeze offered relief more often than not. Leaves were starting to change colors, falling to the ground and polluting the air with the soft  _ crunch crunch crunch  _ of children chasing after them. There were just a few weeks until summer would be done and Jughead would start his junior year at Riverdale High School, home of the Bulldogs, of perfectly normal teenagers without knowledge of their hometown’s dark secrets and checkered past. And he would have to walk through the halls wondering every day what the hell happened to Betty Cooper while his classmates and peers were more worried about Homecoming dates and baseball tryouts.

 

It had been almost a month of Jughead walking through the neighborhood, making sure he passed the Register. The crew remembered him and shot him curious looks, muttering to themselves about the strange boy who was always around, who looked haunted by something no one could place. Sometimes Jellybean would join him to make sure he had company. Sometimes he would camp out with a sleeping bag and a thermos full of soup, lying to his parents about spending the night at the Andrews’, so he could watch for any sign of unrest. Any sign of Betty.

 

Archie was a good sport. He played along, teasing Jughead about sneaking out to visit “his girl.” In a sense, he was right. Whatever Betty and he were--had been? Was she coming back?--felt good. It felt real, even though she technically wasn’t. She made his heart flutter and the world feel a little brighter.

 

And she had kissed him. Actually, genuinely, corporeally kissed him, before falling right through his body and flickering from existence. Something was happening, changing, and no matter how much occult googling and bookstore hunting he did, there were no answers. Even Jellybean, because apparently his little sister was a plethora of spooky knowledge, couldn’t appropriately define what wickedness was going on.

 

_ “Something’s changing. But I don’t know what. I could feel Betty in the bunker, but it wasn’t all of her. It was only a part.” _

 

He had spent the better part of the last few weeks looking for a way into Hal Cooper’s secret underground fallout shelter. He wanted to have answers for whenever Betty came back, though it was starting to become a very real possibility that she might not come back, that the void or the heavens or whatever it was had swallowed her up. Maybe it was enough for her to know where her body was. But it wasn’t for him. Leaving everything like this and trying to move on wasn’t going to be enough for him, not when there were no concrete answers and neatly tied bows. So, risking emotional traumatization the likes no one had ever seen before, he kept digging, kept searching. And he had absolutely nothing to show for it.

 

Jughead sat, lying in bed, looking at the stucco patterns on the ceiling, trying to put together shapes like he was looking at the stars painted in the dark blue skin of the night sky. Nothing made sense.

 

A small yelp startled him out of his musings. He sat straight up in bed and saw her, Betty Cooper in the overalls she’d been wearing the very first day they met, ponytail swishing, converse pressed against the hardwood of his bedroom floor. The shimmer was still around her, not like the pinkness he had seen at the Register where she had looked so very alive. This was how she always looked: see-through and otherworldly. God, did she look beautiful.

 

But what he saw in her eyes nearly made him openly weep. She looked scared, terrified, with tears streaked across her ghostly skin, lip still quivering. Deep green met blue and he watched a little of the worry start to fade as she choked out, “Juggie?”

 

If they could have hugged, could have held each other impossibly tight, they would have. He wanted to rush to her and hold her and pepper her face in kisses so she smiled and laughed and let whatever had hurt her wash away, at least for a few moments. But reality was cruel and unkind and he could do nothing more than ghost his hand through hers. He shivered at the touch, they both did, but he hoped the warmth of his hand helped ease her worries.

 

“Oh my God, Betty you’re back. You’re here and you’re back. Where were you? I was so fucking scared, you’ve been gone for weeks!”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know where I was, I have no idea where any of me was. I just know that it was dark, Juggie, it was so dark. It was like the place I was before Freddy and your dad got me out of there, where everything was cold and black and I felt so lonely. I just sat there waiting for something to pull me out again. All I could do was think about you and Jellybean to keep me through it all, to keep me from going insane.”

 

He brushed her hand again. “It’s okay. It’s okay because you’re here now. You’re back. I don’t know what got you out, but I’ll be sure to send it a gift basket if I can manage to get a hold of its address.”

 

She laughed at that, a little sound that was nearly choked out by her sniffles. “I’m so glad I’m back. I don’t ever want to go there again.”

 

It was quiet then, as the realization of what the future might bring settled in. Neither of them knew where Betty would go after they reunited her with her body. Would she fade into nothingness and live in an empty void? Jughead had always been a skeptic, unsure if things like God and heaven were really things that could be out there in a world so vastly rooted in science. But he hoped, he hoped beyond reason, that they were. Because Betty deserved to go there, to float like an angel through the clouds and laugh and smile and be free of all the horrible things that had ever hurt her in the human plane.

 

“I don’t want to leave you.”

 

Her voice was barely a whisper. He nodded. “I don’t want to you to go either, Betty. What I have with you, what we have, I kept thinking about it while you were gone. I missed you. Every second of every day I missed you and when you go, I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing you.”

 

“It’ll get easier the longer I’m gone. They say time heals all wounds, right? You’ll find someone else, someone who can actually have you and love you and,” she reached out, pressing her hand as best she could against his cheek with a sad smile, “actually touch you. Someone who can offer you comfort when you’re in pain. I can’t do those things with you, Juggie. It’s not fair to you what we’re doing.”

 

“I don’t care. I don’t care that it’s not fair, it’s real and it’s there and I like you, Betty. Telling me to not like you because it’s just going to hurt us won’t stop it from happening. So let’s just… be happy for a little bit before it all goes away. So maybe you can remember me and I’ll always remember you.”

 

“You’re so sweet. I don’t see how anyone around could ignore what a swell guy you are. I never got to have a boyfriend, but if I had, I’d want him to be someone like you. ”

 

It was a ghost of a kiss, not like the real, physical softness of her lip. It was the underwater wetness, the sluggish haze that always accompanied their intimate moments, but he still felt hopeful.

 

“Betty, what if I took you out on a date? You said you never got to go on one and before we have to… before the universe takes us apart, I want to let you feel normal, at least a little. So we can have a good old-fashioned Pop’s date.”

 

She giggled, shaking her head. “That sounds great, Jug, but I can’t go into Pop’s. The only times Little Terry’s ever seen me have been just a few seconds and he walks away shaking his head. If people see you talking to yourself, you might end up in the looney bin.”

 

Betty had a point. This was a town with residents he would have to survive for the next few years, at least until he was finished with high school and he packed up all he had, escaping to some far off place like Florida or maybe as far as Washington. If they saw him sitting in a back booth at the only diner in town talking to himself, well that would result in a level of bullying he was not willing to endure. Even his new found friendship in Archie would have a hard time saving him from that bullshit.

 

“Besides,” she continued with a coy smile, “I can’t even eat a milkshake. But if I did, it would be vanilla.”

 

And then it came, a flash of brilliance that had him beaming. They needed somewhere intimate, private, alone where they could relax in each other’s company without the fear of mockery or questions about his sanity.

 

“I have a better idea then. Jellybean’s with my mom today, out shopping and getting ready for school, so what if you met me down at Sweetwater River. I’ll need about an hour to get everything I want figured out. Is that okay?”

 

She seemed hesitant and really, he couldn’t blame her. For the last month she had been trapped in an echo chamber of darkness with nothing but her own thoughts and worries to suffocate her. It must have been scary to think about being alone again, especially when she had just come back. But he hoped she trusted him enough with this one.

 

“I just want it to be a surprise. So you can have the date you never got but always deserved. So you can have someone treat you right... even for just for one night.”

 

“Okay,” Betty finally nodded. “Okay. I’ll meet you in one hour at Sweetwater River. But Juggie, if you’re not there I’ll be so mad I’ll pop right back into your room and I’ll make such a mess.”

 

“Good to know ghosts are the missing link between cats and humans. I promise I’ll be there in an hour, an hour and a half at max depending on how long Pop’s takes. I want to give you this. I want this to be something for us to remember. I know I’ll always cherish the memories I have with you because you might be the single best thing to ever happen to me in this shitty little town, maybe my whole life in a bunch of shitty little towns.”

 

With one last chilling kiss, they separated. Betty faded like she always did when she had somewhere to go, that haunting glow dissipating from his room and leaving his heart feeling hollow in its absence. He texted his dad an apology for stealing the bike again before kicking off and riding it towards the one food establishment in town. Aside from the Pizza Hovel, but that was between here and Greendale, in an unspoken patch of territory that was neither here nor there that not many residents on either side liked to acknowledge. Supposedly, it was haunted.

 

Maybe that would be his next mystery.

 

Or maybe not. Jughead was starting to get a little tired of ghost stories, especially ones destined to have an unhappy ending. He had always considered himself a realist, someone who didn’t cling onto frivolous ideas and flights of fancy. An optimist would always be disappointed, but someone like him had wiggle room when the universe, and by extension humanity, decided to not be the worst and surprise him with a little goodness. But Betty Cooper did things to his heart and to his mind that made him a lot more hopeful than before.

 

When he got to Pop’s, the unusual pep in his step got him a few strange side eyes from the regulars who normally watched him brood over his laptop and a cup of coffee.

 

“Two shakes?” Pop raised a questioning eyebrow up at him when he placed his order. “Got anyone especial you’re meeting up with? Maybe Archie?”

 

“What? I’m a growing boy. Besides, I thought you made it a personal rule to not go meddling in Riverdale teens’ personal affairs. These bad boys are both for me.”

 

“Mhm.” It didn’t feel like he really believed him.

 

While Pop was making his food, and the scent of freshly cut fries and grilled burgers assaulted his senses and made his mouth water, he did some heavy googling. A few times, he caught himself deleting at the pure absurdity of his questions.

 

_ Can ghosts taste food? _

 

_ Can ghosts eat? _

 

_ Do ghosts enjoy sustenance? _

 

_ What the fuck am I doing? _

 

_ I think I want to fuck a ghost? _

 

_ Ghost the Movie ending _

 

It was a slow spiral into madness--and mixed messages--so he was grateful when the little bell rang and the kind gentleman gave him his order to go. Before he left, Jughead snatched the picnic basket and an old My Little Pony blanket from the laundry room cupboard. He doubted Jellybean would be missing it anytime soon and it was already so fraught with cocoa stains that he doubted a little grass and rocks would damage it too much more.

 

He rode the bike down to Sweetwater River. It was a place he had only been once or twice when Archie had managed to pull him out of his cave of wallowing and wishing Betty would return for long enough to feign human interaction. Begrudgingly, he had fun, though he would never admit to Archie out loud that it had been that. That was way too much ammunition for such a sweet guy.

 

When Betty wasn’t there, he began to panic. He hadn’t said where to meet him, which was a grave oversight, but she’d always had a way of simply appearing where he was. The worry settled in immediately and the blood in his veins went ice cold.

 

“Betty?” he called hopefully. Maybe she was there. Maybe she was just hiding. Maybe she hadn’t gone away again.

 

Not even a single bird offered him solace with its song. His heart beat faster, his head started to spin and he opened his mouth to call again. Only now he felt the unmistakable chill of Betty’s fingers against his skin, trying to pull the wool over his eyes (literally) by covering them. It was strange, to look through something with one foot in this reality and one in the great beyond. Everything he saw exploded with color. It was like he had only seen the bare bones of the universe.

 

“Guess who,” she whispered, her breath cold and making him shiver.

 

“It doesn’t work when you’re the only noncorporeal person I know, Betty.”

 

She huffed and pulled away, a smile still dancing on her perfectly pouted, cupid bow lips. “Spoil sport. You couldn’t have even pretended for a minute?”

 

“Maybe, but where’s the fun in that?”

 

Betty watched him set up his plan. The blanket went down first, and then the basket, from which he pulled out his paper white Pop’s bag. He had two milkshakes set out in front of him while he pondered the best way to make his suggestion.

 

“So I did some research.”

 

“A dangerous past time of yours.”

 

He glared halfheartedly at the girl sitting beside him, her legs crossed and her frilly pale socks peeking out from the tops of her keds. “Ha ha. Does everyone in the afterlife get as good of a sense of humor as you?”

 

“No, I’m one of the lucky ones.”

 

He rolled his eyes, popping the lid on his milkshake and biting the cherry off to keep his hands occupied while he made his suggestion. “I was thinking, or reading, that maybe you could like… god this sounds so stupid, brush your hand through the milkshake. You said it was your favorite and I’m thinking maybe you can like… taste it that way?” At her hesitant raise of an eyebrow, he immediately tried to backpedal in a panic. “God, that sounds fucking stupid, doesn’t it? I’ve gone completely bonkers. You can tell me, I promise I won’t be too offended.”

 

“I think… it’s worth a try? I haven’t had a milkshake from the Shoppe in such a long time. Even if I can’t taste it, the fact that you tried is sweet. The fact that you set any of this up for me is sweet. I never imagined someone would like me enough to put their time and energy into something so good. Daddy always said I was broken.”

 

“Hal Cooper is an asshole and a liar, Betty. Nothing about you is broken and if there is something, it’s the same thing that every single one of us has. We’re human beings, it’s in our nature to be absolute disasters.”

 

“Technically,” she smiled and moved a bit closer, “I am the remnant energy of a human being that no longer lives and breaths.”

 

“Technically, you’re a smartass.”

 

They sat together laughing at the silliness of it all. That levity was back, even in the midst of something so serious, he always felt like he was hovering above it all, playing hide and seek with the stars.

 

He couldn’t help but stare at her. She had changed out of her overalls, a common thing she had once told him she had very little control over. Her wardrobe would match to fit the mood she was in or the story she wanted to tell. Today it was a cherry patterned dress, her hair pulled out of its usual high ponytail, falling down her shoulders in soft waves. It looked so soft, Jughead wanted to reach out and card his fingers through it.

 

“You’re staring.”

 

“I do that sometimes. I think it’s because I have these little organs in my body that twitch a little and offer me sight. Surely, you haven’t forgotten about them already.”

 

Betty rolled her eyes, but that smile never left. He noticed a little flush on her cheeks--or what likely would have been the flush of blush had it not been watered down by the pastels of her very existence. “As we’ve established. I want to try the milkshake. Can you open it for me?”

 

It was sweet that she was willing to humor him even in a moment of genuine silliness. There was no logical reason to suggest that she would be able to taste a milkshake if she shook her body through it, but he had never been one to pay much attention to the dos and don’ts of ghost-hood. (Maybe he would turn his book into something self-help related and title it ‘How to Date a Ghost’ and see how many people labeled it as falsehoods and fictions.)

 

Once the lid was popped, she reached down and ran her hand through the cup. He watched as the world contorted to fit her flights of fantasy. When she touched things, they always shook for a moment before finding their way back into his plane of existence. Betty shivered and pulled back to press her fingers against her lips.

 

Her eyes were wide with surprise and hope leapt straight into his rapidly beating heart. She reached down and did it again, smiling this time. “It tastes just like I remembered it did, Juggie. I don’t know how you did it, or maybe the universe did, but I got to taste a Pop’s milkshake one more time.”

 

“A day of firsts and lasts before we find a way to get Cinderella home again. I’m just happy I got to give you something like this. No one should forget what an iconic Pop Tate specialty tastes like. Was it as strong as you remember? Maybe I should fuck my college plans and open up an occult shop here in Riverdale. Jellybean and I could run it together and we can scare the pants off of college visitors and high school jocks coming in to have a good time.”

 

“Juggie, that’s mean!” she giggled anyway. “It tastes… faint. But it’s there. I remember how creamy it is and I remember the way it always felt like such a treat. Daddy hated taking me out, but whenever Polly or Chic and their friends would leave, they made sure to bring me back something sweet. I loved sweets.”

 

“I can’t imagine why you like me.”

 

“I can. You’re the sweetest boy I know, Jughead Jones.”

 

He felt the tips of his ears turn pink from her praise. To hide his embarrassment, he dug around in the bag again, producing his laptop. It was completely charged, which should last them through at least one good movie. Maybe two if they were lucky. It was a way to prolong the inevitable, to waste as much time as possible in her presence. He knew soon--maybe not today or tomorrow, but sometime soon--this would be no more. These simple moments and convoluted plot points would be nothing more than a myth in his journal he might not believe by the time he turned twenty. For now, he wanted to bask in the realness of Betty Cooper by his side. His first girlfriend. His first kiss. Maybe his first love.

 

But he wouldn’t say that today, he couldn’t. Admitting it out loud would sound too much like a goodbye and he would never want to hurt Betty any more than she was already suffering. If he told her, he might as well have reached into her corpse and ripped out her heart to crush it and then done the same with his. Her departure would be hard enough with silly human feelings bogging anything down further. So it would be his secret, the pin on his jacket he would hold close to his heart forever. When people, maybe his children, would ask who he loved before their mother, he would give them a secret smile and turn away. 

 

This was for him and him alone.

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

Her eyes were soft, curious, and he watched her hand inching towards his. When they held hands, it was difficult to describe the feelings of it all. He had never held hands intimately. In fact, the only person he’d really done it with on more than one occasion was Jellybean, and that was mostly to make sure she wouldn't run off and get lost. This was something more, something soft and sweet and filled with the same adoration he had in his heart. It was a reminder, a promise that she would miss him as much as he would miss her.

 

“Just trying to decide what movie we’re going to watch. I have so much to show you and so little time. I’m thinking  _ Psycho _ ?” he paused. “Or maybe not that. Something with a bit bubblier ending. Oh god, I’m severely regretting the fact that I only watch sad classic movies. As a matter of principle, I distrust anything filmed within the last decade.”

 

“Whatever you pick I’m going to like. I haven’t seen many movies, so I’m just excited to experience a little more life before I… finally die, I guess?”

 

“Can we not talk about it for a little while? If it’s all the same to you? I just want to pretend we’re normal and this is a date that normal couples have at Sweetwater River in Riverdale where nothing is normal, nothing matters, and it feels like the rules are made up.”

 

Betty frowned, her eyes sad, and she brushed her hand against his again. “Okay, Juggie. Okay. We can pretend that everything is normal because it’s what you deserve. It’s what we both deserve. For just a little while, I’m your girlfriend and we might end up necking in the back of your dad’s truck at the Twilight Drive-In tomorrow night when we stay past curfew.”

 

“That, I think, is an image I’ll hold onto for the rest of my life.”

 

“I would be easier if you just let me go.”

 

“Maybe, but I never will, Betty. I never could.” He leaned forward to give her a kiss, gentle and soft and unsure. He could feel the subtle twist of the air and pressure before she pulled back with a smile.

 

Their date was easily one of his favorites, on his very short list of one it ranked at the top. Betty liked  _ Psycho _ better than he thought she would. They got a lot better at their version of kissing. Once, she’d been startled by the music and he swore he could feel her grasp tighten around his, but just as quickly as the feeling had come, it was gone. Hope was an unkind mistress, messing with his mind and making him see and feel anything that would make reality a little less painful. At least he would always have this, have them curled up in front of the river on a ratty old blanket, her reaching for the milkshake even though it was melted and smiling every time she got a good taste of it.

 

They stayed out until his laptop was dead and the evening was painted with stars. She named constellations to him and he memorized the delicate curve of her finger and the smallness of her wrist. He memorized every inch of Betty Cooper in hopes she would never leave his mind.

 

She met him back home. By the time they arrived, the house was silent except for the rock of the house each time his father snored. There was a note on the coffee table from Jellybean with golden brown sugar cookies she had decorated with their mother, reminding her older brother he could only have two of them or otherwise he was “a greedy jerk.” He took three just to prove a point.

 

Betty was sitting on his bed, slowly kicking her legs. When he was about to speak, to tell her how beautiful she was or ask her why it was the world was so cruel to them, she cut him off. “I think I might know how to get into the bunker. It hit me all of a sudden, out of nowhere, that the one thing he loved more than the bunker was me. In his own crazy way, I was his everything. When he killed me, he snapped and didn’t know how to cope with himself or anything. So I think, I think the key might be in my dollhouse. He made it for me out of nothing, put it together with wood and glue and nails and helped me and Mom and Polly paint all the furniture when it was time. It might be his way of saying he’s sorry to me, or maybe just more delusions. But if it’s going to be anywhere, that’s where it will be.”

 

“Do you want to go check?”

 

She nodded and together they descended into the attic for what Jughead hoped would be the last time in his life. This place was starting to become a secondary bedroom for him with all the time he spent messing around and disturbing the hordes of spider families that had moved in. They were going to start asking him to pay rent sometime soon.

 

The dollhouse was creepier at night, even more so with Betty’s glow casting a light down upon it. He cracked it open and tried to rifle though the opening. She reached for the attic first and pointed at the bed. “Check under there. He used to tell me there were monsters under my bed, so I needed to make sure I stayed inside, no matter what. I should have known the monsters weren’t under my bed, but standing next to me instead.”

 

Just like she had predicted, from under the bed he pulled out a long, silver key, the same kind of one that had opened the dollhourse itself. It looked like it matched the padlock on the bunker door. His breath stilled and he let out a shaky noise that sounded almost like the distressed whine of an injured animal, the same one Hot Dog would always make when he twisted his foot or banged his head against the wall in excitement. Neither of them spoke, just exchanged glances.

 

“So I guess this means we’ve done it. We could go to the bunker tonight and see what’s underneath it. To see if... you’re underneath it.”

 

Betty pursed her lips and nodded. “We could. But tonight, I thought we promised each other that tonight would be about us. That tonight we would get to pretend. So please, Juggie, can we pretend just a little bit longer? Can we pretend I snuck into your place after you dropped me off at home because I missed the sight of you and I needed to see you again or I thought I was going to die? Can we pretend, just for tonight, that everything is okay and that we aren’t some Romeo and Juliet love story destined to fall apart.”

 

“Okay. Okay, I think I can pretend just a little while longer. And then tomorrow…”

 

Betty nodded, reaching out and placing a kiss on his forehead. “Tomorrow.”

 

She laid beside him the entire night. They didn’t talk much this time, aside from the occasional mutter of adoration, so quiet to keep it hidden from the cruel realities of the eventual unknown. As his eyes were fluttering shut and sleep consumed him, he swore he heard her whisper something.

 

_ “I love you, Jughead Jones. Please don’t ever forget me.” _

 

He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Not with all the journals filled with her name. Not with the very essence of her being tattooed onto his heart forever. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

 

(And he didn’t.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to remind everyone that this fic does not end with jughead discovering Betty's decayed corpse. I would also like to remind everyone to go thank @bugggghead for that, because it absolutely was on my outline until she went "TORI WHAT THE FUCK" and knocked some sense into me.
> 
> also follow me on tumblr! @tory-b


	8. What Happened on Elm Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what did really happen on elm street?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this long sugary post about how grateful i was and then ao3 ate my update and didn't save it in a draft. I'm going to try to recreate what was absolutely exquisite poetry and totally not just me sobbing incoherently into my keyboard
> 
> Ultimately, I just want to thank everyone for being here with me through this fic. This is the FOURTH count 'em four (4) multichapter fic I've finished um...I would venture to say ever. In most places, fandoms, etc that I have written for I quit due to a lack of self confidence. But here, in this place, I have never felt more supportive in my craft. Ever. I've found this amazing community of people who love what I do and support me even when I decide to go off road and write something niche (like this or zombies you know) and I am just so eternally grateful for not just the community as a whole but also the people I have met and made friends with who make me feel so overwhelmed with love and joy and support that I am emotional even just writing it now.
> 
> An ever loud and thunderous applause to my fandom mother @bugggghead who beta'd this fic, supports me in so much, and is genuinely one of the most wonderful, kind, supportive, amazing, talented, beautiful people I have ever been blessed to include in my life <3

Jughead had set his alarm to go off during the witching hours. It felt fitting, important, like maybe if they were going to unlock some sort of happy ending, they had to do everything right. It was eerie, quiet, and the air was thick with early morning condensation that clung to his windowsill. He watched as little water droplets raced down the glass pane and tried not to dwell too much on what tonight was: the end.

 

The end of everything good, everything bad, and everything in between that had happened this summer. This was the end of his life with Betty, the one he had barely gotten to start and the one he had spent all the time he should have been sleeping imagining was different. He hated endings. The worst part of a book was the final words and writing them was nigh impossible. Nothing ever felt right. There should be no endings in the world. Life was too cyclical. Even death was truly not an end, at least if you had the pleasure of becoming a ghost.

 

Maybe pleasure was not the right word. He had seen Betty struggle so much these last few weeks, not just with her immortality, or lack thereof, but with the pain it had caused those around her. Her parents. Her family. But also him and Jellybean. She was currently in his little sister’s room, saying her goodbyes if the little sobs and wails were any indication. Jellybean always pretended to be so strong, but this was the first time she had ever had to experience the death of someone she cared about. It was ironic, that death had brought them here, the death of his grandfather and that death would be how this all ended. When he wrote his book, he would have to think of something much more clever.

 

Jughead met Betty out in the hallway right outside his sister's room. He could still hear her crying, little choked sobs and the shake of her wrought iron bed frame against the wall, and he could tell by the pained expression on Betty’s face their talk had not been easy. It was a talk they had silently agreed not to have. If he had to say goodbye, actually force his mouth to form the words, he would selfishly turn and run as far as he could from Riverdale in hopes that Betty would follow and she would be forever tethered to him. 

 

Goodbyes were not his strong suit. When he had gotten the news the Jones family was leaving Toledo, he had left a note on the door to the office of his newspaper electing a new editor and sent two text messages to the people he cared about as they were driving out of town. He did not like goodbyes. Then again, no one really did.

 

They walked to the remnants of the Register in silence. Occasionally, her hand would ghost through his, a reminder that they were together, at least for a few more minutes. He reveled in every shiver that rattled down his spine. This would be the last time he would ever feel like this again, but he knew Betty’s memory would haunt him for a very long time. Maybe the rest of his life.

 

“Betty…” He was quiet as they walked, stopping when he could see the Register looming in the distance. There it was. The key was heavy in his pocket, a reminder each time it hit his thigh where they were headed, what they would be doing. “I love you.”

 

He could hear her breath hitch--the breaths she didn’t have to take but had grown so accustomed to--and her eyes met his. They were glassy, filled with tears they had both been trying to ignore. His were, too.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

The final approach was chilling. With every step he took, Jughead felt his feet growing heavier. The stars were out tonight, mocking him with their twinkling, and even the gentle presence of the moon was not enough to calm him. He half expected that the vault door would not be there, that the night they had first stumbled across it was nothing but an illusion, that he had more time to spend with Betty. But there’s never enough time. Not for anything. Not for anyone.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

Betty stood frozen in place, her eyes blown wide with something he might dare to recognize as fear. She took a breath and choked out, “I’m scared, Juggie.”

 

“I know. I know you’re scared. I’m scared too because I don’t know what happens. I don’t know if I’m going to open this door and see your skeleton and need just an insane amount of therapy. Maybe that’s the best case scenario at this point. I don’t know what’s going to happen to you, how you’ll go away, or even where you’re going. I just hope it’s somewhere that deserves you, somewhere that treats you like the literal angel that you are, and that when you’re up there... you won’t forget about me.”

 

She shook her head, dropping to her knees beside him. The flashing was happening again, that strange twist of the world that allowed her to actually touch him for a few fleeting moments. “I promised you I would never forget about you. When I’m up in heaven, I’ll be watching over you with every step you take, waiting for you to come home and meet me again. But promise me you’ll take a long time, Juggie. Promise me that I won’t get to see you again for another seventy to eighty years.”

 

“That’s a long life expectancy to put on a teenager who drives a motorcycle and is going to have bad cholesterol thanks to Pop’s burgers by the time I’m in my mid-twenties.”

 

“Juggie. Please. Promise me.”

 

He nodded. “Okay. I promise, Betty. I promise I’ll wait a good, long time before I see you again. But I  _ will  _ see you again, even if I have to start donating my time to animal shelters to make up for being a royal asshole in my early middle school years. I love you, Betty. I won’t ever stop loving you. I could never stop loving you. I will love you every minute of every day for the rest of my life, even if I have to fill up pages and pages of notebooks so I know I’ll never forget you.”

 

She was crying now, sobbing like a child. His own throat had closed and his words of encouragement sounded hollow. There was no way to tell what the world would bring. The promises he made were sincere now, but in five, ten, maybe fifty years he had no idea where he would be. Loving Betty Cooper seemed like it was woven into the very fiber of his being, like he had been handcrafted to solve her crime, to help her learn what love was, to be bathed in the heavenly glow of her light.

 

“Come here for a minute.”

 

It was a silly gesture, one that should have meant nothing, but was everything to both of them in that moment. Jughead picked up a small, smooth rock from the construction site, discarded and forgotten by the staff as they made their way back to the comfort of their homes, blissfully unaware of what would happen when they were away. There was an old knife in his back pocket, one he always kept with him for ‘just in case’ emergency situations. (Toledo was a bad place and he was not about to walk through the street late at night without something to protect him from a shiv to the stomach.)

 

Betty watched him closely, apprehensive as he drug the knife along the smooth surface of the rock. His movements were sharp, quick, purposeful in every stab, twist, and poke until finally, his message was complete. Carved into the rock with a large heart encasing a familiar set of initials: “JJ + BC.” It was a silly thing, right out of a romantic movie that ended on a much happier note than theirs. But the little gasp from his 50’s love was worth it.

 

“It’s no tree, but I think I’ll keep it on my desk. I don’t think I could ever forget you, but this way I know I won’t. I think… I think you’re it for me, Betty. I think you’re the one.”

 

“No. No, you can’t say that. You can’t say that when I’m about to go away! You can’t hang your hat on me when I’m about to leave you, Juggie. I don’t want you to be miserable waiting. I want you to live and be happy and be silly. I want you to make mistakes, go on adventures, and… kiss… and kiss girls and fall in love again.” The cold night air nipped at his cheeks as he watched her crumble before him, overwhelmed with her emotions and their inevitable goodbyes. He was crying, too, tears streaming down unabashedly. “I want you to get married. I want you to find someone better for you than me and kiss them every morning and let them feel the same unbridled love that I always do whenever you look at me. It would be so selfish if I kept that to myself when I wasn’t even here to feel it.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to give myself to anyone else. You’ve ruined me completely.”

 

She choked out another sob. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

 

“You know, I don’t think I am.”

 

When he was little, Gladys used to always say a band aid hurt less when you ripped it off all at once, that going slow was the most agonizing pain there could be, because with it came the anticipation of the unknown. Huddled over that small little hole in the ground, he felt the same crippling fear. This time it was nearly a ton of metal and not a superman bandaid that terrified him, but the gut wrenching anxiety was still the same.

 

He pulled the key from his pocket and easily popped the lock. The chain tumbled down with a heavy clank. All that was left to do was open it, open the door and see what lay beneath. As above… so below.

 

“You ready?”

 

“No.”

 

Jughead offered her an uneasy smile. “Good. Me neither.”

 

It hissed when he twisted, long condensed air flowing out with a single pop. No dead body stench--the universe offering him a small comfort before the horrors no, doubt. He had googled it a few times, how long it took to decompose a body and was frankly terrified by the mixed messages. Eight to ten years without a coffin, but it could take longer with one, especially solid oak. But this was not a solid oak coffin. This was a literal underground bunker made completely of steel, crafted by a crazed lunatic to store his family in when the perceived inevitable United States-Soviet Union nuclear war broke out. Of course, nothing about the Cooper family could be normal.

 

“Do we go in?” Betty asked, eyes wide.

 

He watched her flicker again. Every time she faded too far into his reality she would flinch, stumble back, sometimes nearly collapsing as she was reminded her breathing needed to be regular again. It was a phenomenon that, despite countless Google searches, yielded no results. He reached out to catch her this time. She was shaken, falling forward when she flickered away again, her hand ghosting through his. It was like reality was chasing them, playing a cruel game of hide and seek it never wanted to end.

 

“We have to if we want to get to the root cause of whatever is happening to you. That can’t be ghost healthy.”

 

“Ghost healthy?”

 

He teased, trying to make the air light again. “Come on, ghosts don’t have a healthy and unhealthy? To be fair, I don’t think flickering out of reality would be human healthy either.”

 

“I’ll miss your terrible jokes most of all.”

 

The descent was unnerving. With every step down the metal rungs, the clank of his boots reverberated off the heavy, metal walls, an echo chamber of terror he dared not question. He pulled out a flashlight from his pockets, one of the few things he had managed to bring in a fit of genius--or rather, Jellybean thrusting it into his hands and reminding him that it would be  _ very dark, you idiot. So make sure you have something to see with. _

 

The air in the bunker was stagnant from years of unuse, the fresh air from the open overhead barely making it breathable. It was bigger than he had imagined it to be, though not near as big as the Fallout games would have led him to believe. Then again, there likely wasn’t a radioactive roach infestation  or a sentient group of zombies living in here either so video games had once again failed him logically.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

Betty paused, mulling it over before speaking. “Strange. Different. I feel this sort of pull and I don’t know where it’s leading but it’s in here. Like I am in here. I know I’m in here somewhere, I just don’t know where.”

 

“Well, the best part is we’ve started in a good place and there isn’t really much here to dig around in. So we have to be able to find something that isn’t junk littered around the room.”

 

The construction zone up above had not been kind to the old bunker. There were bits of debris that had gotten in through the advertised airtight containment. Dust lined the selves, clinging to the old tin cans and water jugs. He reached out and picked up a can of creamed corn, having to squint to read the back nutritional label, barely recognizing the yellow blob on the front as a sun.

 

Beside the corn were raisins, prepackaged with that familiar stunning smile from a farmgirl he had always associated with neglect in his childhood. Raisins were not something that kids got at school that they enjoyed. Raisins meant you parents had forgotten to pack your lunch and were quickly tossing things together in hopes there was something moderately edible in the used Spiderman lunch pail you’d had since grade school. Jughead hated raisins and the little red box they came in.

 

Betty came up beside him, her breathing ghosting on the nape of his neck, sending all the hairs to stand at high attention. He turned to her and raised an eyebrow, curious at the intensity of her corporeal body. She looked nearly real right now. It was the same kind of glow she’d had when he’d kissed her, cheeks painted a healthy red, but the bruises on her neck more pronounced than ever.

 

It was then he noticed the shaking. Like she was trapped in a snowstorm, every part of her shook, the breath coming out of her mouth whispering white into the air. He let out a stream of hot air, surprised when it did not cool the same way hers did. It was cold underground, yes, but not cold enough to do that. Her lips looked blue. The tips of her fingers were frozen to the touch and when she tried to clench her hand, nothing happened but a tired whimper and the slight twitch of her fingers. Even her nose was red.

 

“Betty… what the hell is happening?” He reached out to touch her, porcelain skin just as cold as it looked. But he could touch her, actually physically touch her, and she looked absolutely terrible.

 

On instinct, Jughead pulled off his coat, throwing it over her shoulders to provide some warmth. She was still shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering and eyes darting around the room for any sort of explanation. She pointed towards the back corner of the small, metal room and he turned his flashlight to follow.

 

“That way.”

 

He wanted to kiss her. Or hold her. Anything to help warm her cheeks and stop the shaking. Tonight was terrifying, far more than he had expected it to be. And yet the worst was yet to come. What was the worst was rounding that corner to see a large glass and metal sarcophagus. Wire and tubes stuck out of the heavy metal, plugged into an old machine that shuttered and groaned from years of neglect.

 

Machinery whirred and rattled, compressed cool air blowing out of the strange cylindrical holes in the top of the contraption. Whatever it was, however it was running, it seemed to strike fear into Betty’s heart, rooting her to the spot. He turned and reached out to take her hand. It was frozen; she was frozen.

 

It hit, the tidal wave of understanding, all at once and so intense he nearly fell to the ground. Her father, the wicked madman had been so deranged and heartbroken at the murder of his prodigy that he had done all he could do: freeze her until he could fix her. Jughead stepped forward and dared to brush away the dust that had collected on the iron plate grated into the machine.

 

“Oh God.” He felt sick to his stomach, biting his tongue to keep from hurling right there on the ground. “Betty, don’t look.”

 

But she was already by his side, reaching out to trace the etchings.

 

_ Elizabeth Ann Cooper _

_ My Little Doll _

_ 1941-???? _

_ Never Truly Dead _

_ To Be Reborn Again _

 

“He… he froze me,” Betty could barely choke it out. They stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to even turn and face each other as the cold--literally absolutely freezing, even he was starting to get chilly this close to it--set in. “What happens if we open it?”

 

“I don’t know. Oh God, I have no idea. This isn’t in the dating handbook. You aren’t supposed to have to dig up your girlfriend’s body, let alone break into her father’s nut bunker, find her in a fucking cryogenic tomb, and then make the call on whether to unplug her or not! How in the hell am I going to get therapy for this? How do I explain that insurance bill to my parents without getting tossed into the nearest looney bin?”

 

“You think that’s bad? Try being the one your dad threw into the chamber after he strangled you to death.”

 

It was macabre. Morbid. Absolutely horrible. But they both started laughing. It started off small but eventually morphed into the deranged laughter of two very stressed, very tired, and very confused teenagers. This was not a normal summer night, nor would it be one that anyone would believe. If he dared to even think of telling Archie this story, he would be laughed out of Riverdale High and maybe Elm Street altogether. And he could forget any future invites to Sweetwater Lake for tire swings and swimming.

 

“Betty...” Jughead wiped the tears from his eyes. He wasn’t sure why he was crying anymore, but maybe at this point it wasn’t worth trying to figure it out. “This is you. Your body, not mine. What do you want me to do? I’m sure there’s a key around here somewhere because apparently, your dad loves hiding keys to important things in strange places. I can’t guarantee what will happen after we open it. Theoretically, you’re supposed to be alive, but who knows how it’ll work as I’ve only ever seen these things in science fiction novels that even I thought were too unrealistic.”

 

“There’s a chance… there’s a chance I could be alive. And if you open it and I die then… I die. I’m already dead. I’ve already been living under the impression I was dead for the last few decades so what happens? I die again? Oh no. But this… if I open it, maybe I’ll come back. And what happens then?”

 

“I make out with a very beautiful looking 77 year old and we start calling you a cougar?”

 

She rolled her eyes, plopping down on the ground. Her eyes were fluttering closed, heavy with every step closer they took to her tomb. She was flickering again, fading in a way that was disturbing, even though they were right here, right next to her supposed resting place. Every word she whispered was sluggish now. It sounded like she was dying. The slow and unsteady death and quiet slumber of a man lost in the cold Canadian mountains. Betty rubbed the soft skin and pulled her eyelids apart.

 

“I’m… I’m serious, Jughead. Be serious. What….” She faded for a minute, snapping completely out of existence. “What happens?”

 

“We’ll figure it out, Betty. Like we always do. But you’re starting to scare me.” He reached out to touch her but she was gone for longer than a blink this time. It startled them both, her eyes flying open. “I think the closer we get, maybe the harder it is for you to stay here because you want to be back with your body. What if… what if you got in it?”

 

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Got in my body?”

 

It sounded clinically insane, like he had watched  _ Freaky Friday  _ too many times growing up (he had, but that was irrelevant). But it was the most sane and logical explanation he could come up with in the midst of crazy.

 

“Just… get inside and we’ll see what happens. I’ll pop it open and then like you said, you either die,” and he had committed a very complex murder that is either far outside the statute of limitations of completely fresh and awaiting trial all depending on the detective that took a look at it that day, “or something else. I don’t know what something else is, but I think it’s worth a try.”

 

“Can I say goodbye first?”

 

Jughead smiled. “I thought we promised we weren’t saying goodbye. Or maybe we already did that earlier. Either way, all we can do is try.”

 

“I love you, Jughead Jones.” When she kissed him, it felt like ice pressed against his lips, the same way it had when he was younger and his mother had put bagged ice on his lap after a fight with one of the other children on the schoolyard, scolding him all the while about minding his temper or he’d end up just like his father. Her lips were much more comforting than his mother’s harsh scoldings.

 

“I love you too, Betty. And no matter what happens, I know I’ll see you again one day and I’ll get to tell  you that again and again until you’re tired of hearing it.”

 

As she faded for the final time, there was a smile so bright and stunning, his heart skipped a beat. If nothing else, he had made her happy. No matter how the dice tumbled, win or lose or something in between, he had made Betty happy and that was the only thing that mattered to him.

 

The silence was eerie, nothing but the whirl of the machine to keep him company. He didn’t dare brush the crystallized snow from the front window pane and take a peek at her, no doubt a mess from years of neglect. Jughead fumbled through the shelves, shining his flashlight on anything that might glint. In a drawer near the hastily stacked together beds, he found it, wrapped in an old piece of yellowed paper, a keycode scrawled in faded purple ink. On the rest of the parchment was a note.

 

_ I’m sorry. _

 

_ I’m so sorry. _

 

_ Betty, my little doll, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You were never supposed to be hurt. You were going to be my perfect. My everything. _

 

_ I broke you. _

 

_ But I’ll fix you. I will. I will fix you now. _

 

_ Sleep well Snow White, until I can fix you again. _

 

No doubt they were the mad ravings of a psychopath that had ruined the only thing he wanted. A man like Hal Cooper was a real piece of work and Jughead was glad the man was good and dead and would be rotting in whatever place the devil kept people like him.

 

Without Betty to guide him, or even Jellybean who wasn’t around to reach out and speak to the ghost friends around her, offering whatever advice they might have, he felt a bit lost. His hands shook as he reached for the keypad. It was a moment of decision. Now or never. A final goodbye or a fresh start on forever.

 

It beeped with every entry, a not so subtle reminder that he had chosen to follow through with this insanity. The lid popped and hissed after the final digit. Cold air sprayed the room, chilling him to the bone, creating a cloud of condensation he had to wave his hands to clear. The machine continued to clank, quieter now without the pressure of the subzero temperatures to keep up.

 

Inside the chamber was Betty, wearing the dress she had described in such detail, her favorite little sock hop dress. She was missing one shoe, and both her white socks were stained with grass and dirt. The hair on one side of her head was matted down by thick clumps of dried blood that someone had obviously tried to hastily scrub clean. There were bruises on her neck, her hands, her wrists--every part of skin he could see was marked with purple in some way or another. But there she was, real as day, Betty Cooper.

 

And she was breathing.

 

It was shallow, uneven, but there were shaky little breaths coming from her lungs even when he removed the oxygen mask strapped around her face. There was an imprint in her skin from years of it pressed against her. Blood started to rush to the parts of her skin that were the bluest, pink returning to her lips after only a few minutes exposed to room temperature. He took a shaky breath and touched her face.

 

“Betty?”

 

No answer. The breathing was encouraging, beyond, but he couldn’t exactly call an ambulance and figure out coma procedure for a situation like this.

 

_ Snow White. _

 

Well.

 

What the hell then? 

 

Jughead leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, hoping that in a world of ghosts and cryogenic sleeping chambers, something like a kiss would be absurd enough to actually work. If nothing else, it might help jolt her out of her frozen sleep.

 

He waited.

 

And waited.

 

Nothing came. Just the steady breaths of the barely living to keep him company in his despair.

 

A hiccup.

 

A cough.

 

A sputter and a gasp and Betty was sitting up so fast that her forehead banged against his, sending them both backwards and frustrated. She opened her eyes, blinking as she took in everything around her frantically. She reached down and touched her legs. She touched her shoulders. She touched her hair and then finally, she reached out and touched him.

 

“Juggie…” her voice was tight. “Am I… alive again?”

 

“You know, funny enough, I don’t actually think you were ever dead.”

 

Betty kissed him until his lips turned blue and the universe ceased to exist. All he cared about was her. Real. Alive. Tangible in his arms for the first of many times.

 

\------------------

 

That wasn’t the first thing that happened on Elm Street, and it certainly wasn’t the last. They’d had to tell a complicated story to the police on the corner of Elm and Fourth that fateful night. Years later there was a wedding at the library, a picnic at the park. A baby was born in the dead of night with a cry so loud it nearly shattered the windows as the Joneses said hello to a sweet little girl that had hair just like her mother’s and eyes so blue her father was almost jealous. It took one kiss to change the course of fate and a thousand more that only solidified it.

 

Even when Riverdale is gone, there will always be Elm Street and the story that it told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr [@tory-b](www.tory-b.tumblr.com). I take requests!
> 
> There is not a fic that is replaces this one (at least there shouldn't be because I have too many WIPs and need to be tied down) but I may or may not be in the works of at least passively discussing a soulmates fic with @bugggghead to be my lovely beta again and a Smoke and Glitter sequel. So who knows!
> 
> Until then check out [101 Ways to Cope with Being Post Grad](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16245602/chapters/37979927) the fic I am currently using to cope with my extensive graduation worries and [When the Lights Go Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530917/chapters/38724389) my zombie au fic that I keep fucking writing long chapters for. (15k for chapter 2 guys. 15k)

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @tory-b!


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